Vignettes
by dawnsfire
Summary: A series of one shots, based on random episodes, quirky thoughts, and character reflections. Ch 45: set just before Harbingers and starring one Seeley Booth, still recovering.
1. The Bone that Blew

None of this belongs to me except some of the interpretations. Bones is the property of people other than me, whether it be FOX, Kathy Reichs, or Hart Hanson.

A quick explanation--I've been writing these little pieces at random, mostly reactions to specific episodes, but instead of posting them separately, I thought I'd run this series of one-shots. They will be of varying lengths, and in no particular order. But I probably won't do too many S3 until after Christmas; I've got my fingers crossed that Santa got the message!

* * *

Sweets flushed with pleasure, remembering Agent Booth's praise at his simple statement: _"You'd be a lousy father if you didn't worry about it." _He rarely got that kind of positive feedback from his nominal patients. But it was true, that a lousy parent wouldn't care about his or her child's welfare and future. Booth had nothing to worry about on that score.

Of course, he reminded himself, that accord probably wouldn't last even to their next meeting in just a little while. But it was still three times the cooperation and regard he was currently getting from the other half of the dynamic duo. Dr. Brennan was being especially prickly this week, and it all had to do with her father.

Max Keenan (or were they calling him Max Brennan now? Sweets wasn't sure) was working at the Jeffersonian now and his daughter was exceedingly unhappy about it. And when she was unhappy, others tended to follow suit, mostly by reacting to her, well, he supposed he could call it attitude.

It was quite plain to him the cause of it all--the simple presence of her father brought back memories she didn't want to deal with, and fears she wouldn't admit even existed. That small part of her that was endlessly 15 and freshly abandoned worried that she would be left again.

But when he had brought it up, both had scoffed at him. Clearly a deep interest in science and skill at teaching (if at different levels) were not the only thing father and daughter shared--there was also a major disregard for psychology.

But when Sweets thought about it a little further, he thought Max also had a problem. He had been gone almost 16 years according to the files; more than half of Dr. Brennan's life. She had moved on in her fashion. Autonomous at an early age, reliant on none from the time she started college to that undefined point where she began to lean on Booth, she didn't want--or need--a father to hover, and would be inclined towards outright belligerence if he tried. Witness that incredibly bumbling verbal dance in the diner about where he was going to live. Of course the only time they had actually listened to him was while he was providing verbal clarity.

She loved him, he was her father, charming and likeable sociopath or not; that was evident, especially when she put herself up as a possible suspect during his trial. But she didn't _need _him. Not anymore.

But Max was having a hard time with her actions and attitude. He wanted to be a father again, quite plainly loved his children greatly…and somehow expected that Dr. Brennan and her brother would fall into their old roles. _Russ seems to have managed, but he was older when Max left, and their relationship would have been already verging into one between adults. From the little I know of him, he also seems to be on the dependant side, perhaps even needing his father's emotional support. I can't say for sure, however. She on the other hand was still a child then, and Max has been gone too long. Not to mention she's wickedly independent by natural inclination. For a former fugitive and con man, he's being strangely slow to adapt_.

He grimaced. He could write an uncountable number of books and papers on the Brennan/Keenan family--if they would only let him! All those contradictions and complexities and dysfunctions. Not to mention the loyalty, strength, and courage they also exhibited. It was fascinating! But after the experiment that she had called him on, he wouldn't dare even ask. She didn't need to ask Booth to do anything, no matter her threat; she probably could wipe the floor with him without breaking into a sweat. And Max was just scary--Sweets _really_ didn't want to upset him.

The door opened then, interrupting his thoughts, and Dr. Brennan, followed as usual by Agent Booth, entered the room. Sweets noticed they were in a more positive mood than they had been the last time he saw them.

"So nice to see you both, and on time," he said in a slightly acerbic tone.

"What? C'mon, Sweets. We're usually on time--unless there's a case," Booth said, dropping onto the couch after Brennan sat. She folded her hands on her lap and leveled one of those penetrating stares at him.

"Anything you wish to discuss today, Dr. Brennan?"

"Not particularly, no."

"How's your father?"

Now she tipped her head to the side--and was that amusement there? "If you wish to speak with my father, Dr. Sweets, you should go to the Jeffersonian and do so. I doubt you could get him to come here."

"The Jeffersonian? I thought you--he was fired!" Now Booth looked amused.

"He was. I did. But I was presented with a very persuasive and nearly irrefutable argument for his continued employment. He is going to stay out of the way of any cases, however, unless Cam, Jack, or I specifically ask him to assist with an experiment. He is there mostly to assist with the children's groups that occasionally come through, after all, and it wouldn't be fair to take his time from them."

Booth added, "Shame to deny the kids anything that makes science--ahem--accessible." He smirked at her briefly. "Parker went through with one of those classes and came back all excited. He'd never had much of an interest in it before. That doesn't mean you can turn him into a squint, Bones," he told her.

"That would be up to Parker, wouldn't it?" she laughed, making Sweets stare.

"I'm pleased to see that you have resolved your paternal issues, Dr. Brennan," was all he said, however.

* * *

I have no idea how accurate my foray into psychology is; I have no real fondness for it myself. All errors are mine, and I apologize if I have anything too wrong.


	2. The spheres're in commotion

Feeling…puckish! Disclaimer in Chapter 1.

* * *

Booth had taken to whistling when he entered the Medico-Legal Lab. Brennan had given him peculiar look, since it seemed to be the same piece every time, but usually being preoccupied with other things, she never bothered or remembered to ask him what it was. Angela merely remarked a few times that he seemed to be in a cheerful mood. Cam ignored it; to her, it was merely the sign of a happy Seeley Booth, and she paid no attention to the tune. The interns were too nervous of the big, bad, scary FBI agent (as well as their professor) to talk to him long enough to contemplate asking--and it was a cinch bet that 99.9% of them weren't old enough to remember it.

It was Hodgins who ID'd it. And he couldn't help but chuckle every time Booth came in whistling thereafter.

"How appropriate," was his only comment as he passed the Agent in the hall one day. He strolled off, humming softly.

_It's poetry in motion_  
_She turned her tender eyes to me  
__As deep as any ocean_  
_As sweet as any harmony_  
_Mmm - but she blinded me with science…_

* * *

"She Blinded Me with Science" by Thomas Dolby. Chapter title also from the song. Am I the only one who thought to use it with Bones?


	3. The Verdict in the Story

This has been kicking at me since they reran "The Verdict in the Story" this summer. I noticed the look on Brennan's face when Booth admitted she could have done it; not happy, or even pleased that her plan worked, but rather...pained.

Disclaimer in ch. 1.

* * *

It hurt more than she had expected, hearing Booth say she could have committed murder. Her father's attorney had dragged it out of him, pushing past all attestations to her character. She should have known Booth would still try to defend her. If only she could have warned him…but the rules of this game did not permit that.

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She shook her head and quietly rose to her feet an hour after the jury had filed out. A gentle hand on Russ's shoulder kept him in his seat. "I just need a few moments," she murmured just loud enough for him to hear. "I-I'm not going anywhere."

She collected her coat and went outside. She shivered, but not because of the wind. Rather the remembrance of the look on Booth's face. She now understood the expression about hearts being torn out all too well. It had almost killed him to say it, and she only hoped he could or would forgive her. She had no idea how anyone else had reacted; her eyes had been locked on his, willing him to say it, say the one thing that just might save her father. Even if it meant putting the blame on her.

She had taken his advice on putting the heart into overdrive and the brain in the backseat. But her brain could not be subordinate for long, and when the lawyer said they needed an alternative story, another bogeyman, the wheels had begun to turn.

When she called Booth and asked him to meet her, she knew she couldn't tell him exactly what she was thinking. But who else could she ask? Angela? No, for her best friend was being irrational and over-emotional. Not to mention Ange knew nothing about the legal system. Sweets? _Oh, please_. She didn't know any lawyer save Caroline Julian well enough, and since she was the prosecutor…well, that was a non-starter. Booth was the only person who could help her figure out this heart business as well as the intricacies of the law. Even when they were on opposite sides and he had absolutely no idea of what she was planning, what she was going to ask him to do. _I still don't understand why I couldn't just leave it alone…He's a criminal, a murderer. And my father…who abandoned us._ Frowning, she wondered that she could not truly abandon him in her turn. A year ago, she had sworn she had no loyalty to him. But somehow, once she reopened the door to Russ, it had become wide enough to let their father in as well. Whatever his past.

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She had no idea how long she had been outside, wrestling with these thoughts, when Booth came out. He said nothing, simply pulled her into his arms for a long moment. It felt so good, so right, that she was confused when he let go. But Angela was there and then her father came out, grinning like an idiot. And she hugged him, _hugged her father_, for the first time in years.

She smiled at Booth over her father's shoulder, trying to show him her gratitude. And there was something in his shadowed eyes that told her that at some level he understood she had not meant to be cruel to him.


	4. Pilot

Disclaimer in chap. 1. Back to the point where we can't be sure if they even like each other...

* * *

"This is exactly why squints belong in the lab. You guys don't know anything about the real world."

Their faces shut down, all of them. Bones measured him with a look; he stared back, determined not to be cowed by her. He could see the moment she wrote him off as just another officious, idiotic, PITA. Surprisingly, it stung a bit--a slap to his professional pride. She turned away then. "Come on. We're done here."

_How does someone that cold manage to engender such loyalty?_ he wondered briefly as Zack and Hodgins followed her out without another word, faces dark and disapproving. He had noticed from the beginning that all of the squints were fiercely loyal to her; even Dr. Goodman tendered her more respect and autonomy than might be expected between superior and subordinate. "Wow. Touchy," was all he said however, flipping his poker chip.

Angela headed into the main part of her office. "You must know about her family. Both parents vanished when she was fifteen." She gave him a reproving look. "Probably counts as the real world."

"Yeah, I know the story. I read the file. The cops never found out anything," he responded, following her, trying not to let his impatience with this little segue show.

"Yeah." Angela leaned against her desk. "Brennan figures that if maybe somebody like her had been there--"

Booth turned to face her. "Well, for somebody who hates psychology, she sure has a lot of it." He started to leave, then hesitated. "So where do you think she went?" he asked, suddenly realizing that he might have just become another name on the list of agents who couldn't handle Temperance Brennan. _Dr__. Temperance Brennan_, he reminded himself with mordant humor. He disliked being a statistic, and he hated being a failure. If he couldn't work with her, he'd be both. Not to mention he had told Cullen he needed her on his side. If he screwed it up _now_…

"If she's not still here at the Jeffersonian? Firing range, probably," Angela said. "Letting off some steam. If not there, the gym, punching the stuffing out of a bag. Look, G-Man, do you mind some advice?"

"Can I stop you?"

"No. Solve this case, and solve it quick. Then decide if you still want to be the liaison to the Jeffersonian. You're the fifth one we've had from the FBI. The others were barely polite to Hodgins or Zack, which, admittedly, is the same thing I can say for you, and let me tell you, it doesn't win you any points where it counts. But the person you need to worry about is Bren. The others couldn't handle her, didn't understand her. Didn't try. And yes, she dislocated Agent Coffey's arm when he picked up a bone barehanded. I had hopes for him until then," she added casually. "The rest came in, demanded answers immediately without even basic politeness, rarely let her work with the remains _in situ_, blamed us for errors when we weren't given all the information, then argued and quibbled over everything she said. Gender made no difference, since Agent Pinota was as bad if not worse than the men."

"Goodman--"

"Dr. Goodman can't stop her from driving you out if she's not doing it on purpose. And she wasn't. That's really the way she is. All four of the others gave up after one or two cases because they couldn't understand her drive, her…focus. This is your third, so you've done better than them. But you screwed up so badly on the last one that she didn't want to deal with you again. If she hadn't gotten that call to Guatemala, she probably would have submitted her own request for a new agent. Or possibly refused to work with the FBI again. That's how furious she was."

"Wouldn't that affect her job here?" he asked reluctantly. He realized from what Angela was saying that Brennan must not have told anyone that he was being yanked off the Eller case and was oddly touched.

Angela arched an eyebrow. "Probably not. After all, we do work with other federal agencies, but somehow yours seems to attract all of the idiots. I'm serious," she said as he scoffed. "Based on personal observation, and with the _possible _exception of Homeland Security, the FBI agents have been the worst; even the State Department has been civil. But _if _it did affect her working here, she'd find another place to work. Stanford, maybe. I know they've offered several times. Their equipment's almost as good as what we have here, and she could focus on her teaching and the digs." Her smile was secretive. "I'm telling you this for a reason, Booth. I like you, though God knows why. If you can adapt, you could be the best fit we've ever had. But if you can't or don't, you will go down as the single worse liaison we've ever had, and the one that cost the FBI the services of one of the premiere forensic anthropologists in the world, if not the government. And that'll cost you quite a bit in turn. You could probably kiss any hope of promotion good-bye."

He shoved his hands in his pockets, still fingering the chip. "But there's no solid proof," he muttered. "I can't go after a _Senator _without it."

"You would know that better than me," she replied, sitting at her computer. "But that little scenario we showed you," she nodded at the darkened holographic machine, "is the best explanation for the evidence we have. It's based purely on the facts--we know the type of place if not the actual location; we can tell what caused Cleo's wounds. Brennan wouldn't show it to you otherwise, and she _still _hedged. She won't discuss motive, even when she has a theory; and you note that she wouldn't let me put Senator Bethlehem's face on the assailant. That's still a guess, but it fits the evidence. What you do with it is your job. But you can't write it off completely. Not if you want to keep working with us.

"And something else, Booth. We aren't machines. This isn't a series of party tricks. Every piece of information we can give you, every hypothesis, all of it, is the result of hard work and time. Hours of hard work--blood, sweat, and tears hard work. Don't think because it's mental that it's not hard. Bren will stay up all hours to work on a body from bone storage, a body 100 years old or more, just to identify it as much as possible. A victim of a crime…well, she was here all night and fell asleep over one of the tables out there after putting Cleo Eller's skull together. That after supervising the retrieval of the remains _and _a flight from Guatemala _and _a fight in the airport. That's what she offers when she works--everything! All she's ever asked for that I know of is some respect and recently, a chance to broaden her horizons by going out in the field. Yes, she's stubborn and hot-tempered and brilliant. That's part of what makes her so good at what she does.

"Hodgins is as smart as she is and he puts as much effort into his work, though he at least has enough sense to go home when he can barely keep his eyes open. He can run five analysis programs at once and never lose track of what machine does what nor does he screw up the results. With just a little time, he can tell you more than anyone sane wants to know about a water sample or a bit of dirt or bugs. Zack is probably the smartest grad student we've ever had, though you might not believe it. He's just as dedicated as Bren--but he's learning from the best, after all. He would put in as many hours as Bren if he was allowed to. She says he's becoming a wiz at figuring out the weapon from studying the marks along with everything else."

"You don't say anything about yourself," Booth said, looking at the artist in a new light.

"It's not nice to blow your own horn," she replied with a teasing smile. "I stay as long as she needs me at night during a case, and I do my damnedest to make accurate renditions of faces or recreate a scenario on my little baby there. And I'm there for Bren, to remind her to go home, to eat, that there is a life outside this lab when there's only old bodies to examine. But my point is that you--or your replacement if you decide it won't work--need to remember an old programmer's phrase. 'Garbage in--'"

"'--Garbage out,'" he muttered. "Even I know that one."

"Mm-hmm. Or if you prefer, 'you get what you pay for.' Decide quick, G-Man, 'cause when this case is over, she just might decide to submit that paperwork on her desk."

He ran this thumb over the edge of his poker chip, feeling the ridges. _And here I thought I gave up gambling._ "Where did you say the range was?"

* * *

I think I may have borrowed some concepts from the handful of other Pilot & pre-pilot stories I've read. Sometimes it's hard to tell what's original and what's lurking. My deepest apologies if I stepped on any toes.


	5. The Crank in the Shaft

Yes, 2 chapters up today. Due to some computer malfunctions, I was later than I intended with #4. And if you like it, consider it a Christmas present!

This line amused me greatly on the first viewing, and I just couldn't resist.

Disclaimer in ch.1

* * *

"_Late night meetings, a little cleavage…"_

Booth's words echoed in Brennan's mind as she worked at her desk the day after wrapping up the Patty Hoyle case. He had been hounding the victim's boss, making insinuations, trying to draw out a confession. Had they been having an affair? Had Patty threatened to tell his wife? Why else would she have use of his credit card? Blackmail had appeared to be a decent motive for murder at the time. Untrue, as it turned out, but still plausible.

_But how is that so different from us? _she wondered. _Minus the blackmail of course_. She had completely lost track of how many times he had shown up at her apartment with take-out after 9 pm. Or the times they'd met at the diner or Wong Foo's for a cup of coffee and his everlasting pie after wrapping up a case, and sometimes even when they hadn't had one and just wanted to talk.

Her eyes dropped and took in the top she was wearing. It was scooped low, and she knew there was a hint of cleavage showing. And when the person doing the viewing was taller (like Booth), it was more than a hint.

_What does he think of that? Does he think I'm trying to seduce him? Or hasn't he put it together yet? Or…is that why everyone else thinks we're together? _Her thoughts were interrupted by the man himself. "Bones!" Booth called from out in the lab. There was a flurry of other voices, Cam's dominant, before he stuck his head in her door, using a more moderate tone. "We've got a body in a Maryland field for you to look at. Locals think it might be natural, but want the expert's opinion."

She rose, disturbed and excited all at once by her thoughts, and caught up her kit. _Once we're done_, she promised herself, _I'll think this through._ For now, it was time to work.

* * *

To all my readers:

Kala Christougena. Mele Kalikimaka. Feliz Navidad. Nollaig shona. Vrolijk Kerstfeest. Schéi Chrëschtdeeg. Joyeaux Noel. God Jul. Felix dies Nativitatis. Fröhliche Weihnachten. And of course--Merry Christmas! Best wishes to all, and may we get, not what we deserve, but what we want. (though I suspect Booth and Bones are not going to be in anyone's stocking for real. *Sigh*)

(Sorry if the spelling's off on any of these--you know how translation programs can get!)


	6. Echoes of Betrayal

Disclaimer in ch. 1.

How many echoes for things in S3 in the previous seasons? I tried making a list once: irradiated bones, evolution/becoming, cannibalism, Angela's husband, sternal foramen (sp?), Limbo/bone storage... There are more. But since I was lucky enough to get S3 on DVD for Christmas (thanks, Dad!), I'm seeing some from within, as well. Like this one…

* * *

Booth handed back her letter to Zack after reading it aloud. She looked at it helplessly, then leaned her head against his shoulder. Cautiously, he let his head rest against hers, but she was feeling too beaten down to protest this unprecedented action on his part.

Jumbled images flickered through her mind, mostly images of Zack. When had he lost that slightly quirky sense of--well, maybe not humor, but he used to have a unique if innocent view of the world. When had _that _disappeared entirely? The jokes and experiments with Hodgins; she thought she might actually miss those. _"King of the lab!"_ And despite being scared of the intimidating FBI agent, there had been a few times he had actually given Booth tongue--no, that was wrong, she knew it, maybe it was lip or chin. She could ask, but she didn't want to break the silence because then the questions would come. Well-meant, but she wasn't ready for them.

Zack with a camera at uncountable crime scenes. That one moment where the three men had been in perfect sync--_"Pirates!" _Absorbing her lectures and speeches and lessons, trying so hard to be like her, follow in her footsteps. She had chosen to ignore his plaintive statements that if _she _had slept with her mentor, surely _he _could. She still felt that was a kindness, to pretend she hadn't heard him. She had loved him, supposed she still did, he was like a little brother to her, but there was no physical appeal. And by that point, she really didn't want to imitate Michael Stires. Her pride in him when he got his doctorate. When she had explained that pain was a part of the job, and it had to be set aside so long as work needed to be done, since their job demanded clear sight and the bodies on the table deserved that courtesy and he had managed, even to the point of passing it along. _"__The thing to do is concentrate on the details." _She remembered saying something like that to him and then him telling Booth when the latter had looked uncomfortable with the child's remains on the table.

And the more recent, sadder memories--Zack leaving for Iraq, his odd demeanor when he came back. In a hospital bed, hands and wrists bandaged. His charred hands in the lab. The frightened look in his eyes when she leaned in and demolished his logic. That bizarre reversal of that first Christmas, with all of them clustered on the outside of the glass, looking at him inside, unable to go in.

And suddenly, dizzyingly clear, the remembered taste of Jack Daniels and a snippet of conversation:

"_Look, all the scientists and the squints and the eggheads, they wanted it to be a serial killer so it wouldn't be one of them," Booth said earnestly._  
"'_Them'?"  
_"_You."  
_"_Me?"  
_"_One of you. You were all offended that it was one of you."  
_"_You know what? I am offended."  
_"_I just said that."  
_"_I'm offended! Because…because…"  
_"_Because you were betrayed by one of your own."  
_"_Yes…"_

"And who was more my own than Zack," she muttered, fist clenching about the envelope. Booth shifted slightly.

"Did you say something, Bones?"

"No," she said louder and deliberately smoothed the paper flat against her knee. She refused to look up. One glance at Booth's sympathetic eyes would end her, she knew it. And she should still be mad at him, too, but it was getting all mixed together, more than she could process right now.

"_He first approached me three months ago…"_

"What if we hadn't let him go to that symposium," Brennan said in a shaky voice, deciding all at once that since she had broken the silence after all, she might as well keep talking. "What if Cam and I had said, 'no, you're needed here.' What if there had been a case to hold him here?"

"What if the sky had fallen first?" Booth said softly, the apparent causticity making her stiffen. "What if he--or Gormogon--had been hit by a car the week before?" His voice was sympathetic and compassionate as he kept talking. "Gormogon was looking for a specific type of person. Zack fit his bill. He'd have found a way to get at Zack no matter what." He took a deep breath. "People always ask themselves these things after disasters and deaths and betrayals. But it never changes a damn thing. I mean, maybe I could have stopped him from going to Iraq. I could have approached him when he came back--I've seen that look on other vets' faces and know what it might mean. But I thought being back here, with the Squint Squad and you and familiar surroundings, would be of more help. He's the one who should have been sent to Sweets," he said, slightly bitter. "But my point is that all of us could ask ourselves these sort of questions, Bones, and they'd have just as much validity as yours. It's…a way of assuming guilt."

His arm slid about her shoulders and squeezed gently. "It's not your fault, Temperance," he murmured, and the use of her name had her looking up in surprise. His expression was sober, mourning in his own way, but he was focused on her with one of those intense looks that sometimes made her weak in the knees, but now only made her want to let loose the flood of tears waiting behind her eyes. And in his uncanny way, he added, "You can cry, Bones. It's all right to mourn."

She dropped her head again, staring at the white rectangle she held with brimming eyes. Quick, sideways glances assured her they were alone even as he gave her another squeeze. She drew a ragged breath, hesitating; then simply let go. Wept out the agony of the past two weeks, the fright as the case began to circle too close to home, the pain when they realized who it was. Maybe after this, she might be able to sleep.


	7. Aliens in a Spaceship

Just a busy sort of person, I guess. The standard disclaimers still apply, of course.

* * *

The explosion half deafened them. But the windshield was gone and loose dirt was pouring in. Brennan took a deep breath of what air remained and fought her way to the front seat and out of the SUV altogether. It was like swimming through the dankest swamp, half-frozen over; there was absolutely no visibility and the larger pebbles scraped at her like chunks of ice.

A brush on her ankle told her Hodgins wasn't too far behind and she only hoped he would manage. _It wouldn't be hard to lose the direction. And he's wounded_ and _been_ _drugged. If I only had a rope or tether…!_

Might as well wish for all of the dirt to disappear, or that the Gravedigger hadn't gone after them.

She tried not to think of what awaited them above--day or night, forest or quarry. Would they be alone, or was the Gravedigger waiting to be sure? _According to Hodgins, the quarry is more likely._ Getting to the surface was more important; anything--everything!--else could wait. _I don't know how much longer I can hold my breath. Jack, either._

The dirt under her hands suddenly seemed a little more loosely packed and she couldn't help the surge of hope that ran through her. She clawed at it more frantically. _Have to get out, have to get out…!_

Her hand touched open air and then, even before that had a chance to register, there were hands pulling on her, threatening to yank her arm out of its socket, and she had an instant of panic, immediately overridden by relief that they were near the surface. Friend or foe tugging at her, they would at least be free!

* * *

Happy 2009, everyone! May it be better than 2008!


	8. Cam

_Set somewhere late S3 or possibly early S4..._

* * *

I think I knew our relationship was doomed the night I saw them in the lounge after the child beauty queen case. I should have known sooner, but desire blinded me.

I mean, Seeley is enough to make any woman's heart beat fast--and probably some men's as well. Old friends, former lovers…_of course _we fell into bed again! How _she _can deny him is beyond me, as is why he's being so cautious. He is, you know. I've seen him with other women, and he's rarely so shy, so…restrained. Oh, he flirts with her, and he unleashes that lethal smile of his on a regular basis, but she's so intense and focused that it seems to roll off her back.

Seems, I say. There's been a hint or two that she's not so indifferent as they both protest. And no one could doubt her loyalty, trust--even affection--when it comes to him.

He went insane when the Gravedigger had her and Hodgins. She was nearly as maddened when he got tangled up in that Kennedy-Gallagher thing, actually teaming up with her father. Considering what I've learned since about _that _relationship, well, that speaks volumes. He'd do anything for her safety and she reciprocates. I wish I knew when that started, but even Angela isn't sure, only that it was sometime during their first year of partnership.

After the murder of Deputy Director Kirby, I knew for sure what was coming. How could I not? But we were both reluctant to climb out of our rut. Until Epps gave him the impetus. Unfortunately, that case not only allowed him to draw a line between us, but one between them as well.

********************

There's always been talk about them. They work together too well, too smoothly, for people to think it's an simply a professional relationship.

And as busy as our local gossip mill can be, it went on overdrive after last Christmas. She was seen hanging _mistletoe _of all things in her office. And yes, they kissed under it, I confirmed it with Caroline Julian. But you'd never know it now, except for that $100 I collected from Dr. Goodman when I passed on the news. (How Angela contained herself is another mystery.) I don't understand--he normally wouldn't have stood there like an idiot and let her claim it was like kissing her brother. I guess it'll take more than a ten-second kiss to get them together, but, dear God, I can't imagine what else would do the trick! Maybe if someone tricked them into bed together? That might work, but I don't know how it could happen.

At least if they do become a couple, I think I can count on them staying professional. We shouldn't have a repeat of Angela and Hodgins jumping each other like crazed bunnies.

********************

I've known him too long to be fooled. He's too quick to assume the blame, too willing to make the sacrifice, to deny himself the true desire of his heart.

I've seen him do things for his brother and his mother while she lived. Things even his saints might not do. Seen the consequences at too close a range at least once. He's killed and almost been killed for his country. And he's done all of that for _her._ Taken a bullet, been blown up at least twice that I'm aware of, been dragged into embarrassing situations and confrontations that wouldn't have happened otherwise. Broken the rules.

All for her.

*********************

I would love to hear what they talk about with Sweets. From the kid's usually baffled look, I suspect they tell him very little. They have both learned how to whipsaw and if you don't know them, it's hard to handle. I know from experience, though perhaps not to the same degree that Sweets is finding out. But once in a while, Seeley or Brennan wears that look after meeting with him. It never lasts long, but it's quite noticeable while it's there.

It's possible that they talk more in the SUV--after all, they're usually alone there. Maybe they're further along than any of us realize. Or maybe not. But I'm betting on the former. Not that we're likely to find out for sure, and they might not know, either.

Because, above all else, above anthropology and instinct and marksmanship and investigation, they both are masters of self-denial.


	9. The Blonde in the Game

The look on her face as she sat on the couch in the lounge was all too familiar to him--he had seen it in his own mirror after his first mission as a sniper. He had seen it in the expressions of the baby soldiers he had commanded later when they first killed. And some of his fellow agents, too, especially the newer ones, and he estimated anywhere from a quarter to half of those requested a transfer into a less violent division.

He wasn't sure which way she would jump just yet; he rather thought she would keep coming into the field with him, though if he were lucky, she'd stop harassing him about getting a gun. But he had to poke at her a bit, find out where she was going to stand, make her think about it, too. There might be a next time. Hell, if she kept coming out in the field, there _would _be a next time, and she had to be ready. His life might depend on it again, or, more importantly, her own.

"Vodka?" he asked, indicating the clear liquid in the glass she held.

She chuckled ruefully. "Water. But…it's on the rocks," she added with a wry smile, shaking it so the ice cubes rattled.

"You know, Bones, I'm not sure you grasp the basic theory on how to get drunk." He let a little amusement show as he walked across the lounge for a chair. "Hey." He groaned as he raised his left arm just enough to hold his jacket. He grabbed a chair with his good hand and brought to the couch. "What you need to do is order a shot of hard liquor from a bartender named Shaky." He chuckled briefly. "And tell him to, uh, leave the bottle on the bar."

That was better…a little amusement on her face. He settled in; despite that flash, they weren't done yet.

"I'm fine, Booth," she said, looking down briefly. "I'm sitting here thinking about it, and…" She set the glass aside. "I'm fine," she repeated, clearing her throat.

"Okay," he replied, openly skeptical. "What I'm getting from you here, Bones, is that you're fine."

She didn't answer right away, but couldn't maintain eye contact. He knew what that meant, and avoidance never helped. She looked away and picked up a photo that had been on the table, staring at it as though it held all the answers.

Craning a bit, he could tell it was a picture of Sarah Koskoff.

"He murdered Sarah. He was about to murder Helen." Her eyes flickered up to him and then away. "You know, why should I feel upset about shooting him? You know, I mean, if I was going to be upset, which I'm _not_, it would be because Epps thinks he beat us, so--"

She was trying to rationalize it now, trying to make everything fit. Probably didn't even realize what she was doing. "He didn't," he said, because that that's what she needed just for a moment.

"I know."

He kept his gaze on her, evaluating her reactions, just like he had done so many times before with everyone else who had depended on him, those he had had to depend on in turn. "You're upset because you think he beat us. You know what? He did."

"Beat us?" She looked up in shock.

"Yeah," he nodded.

"Well, you just said that he didn't." Now she was confused. He could work with that.

"Well, I changed my mind," he said with a half shrug.

"What, in the last three seconds?" His deliberate illogic was only confusing her more, but he had a feeling that it was the only way to make sure she listened to the most important thing he had to say.

"You know, you're afraid that Epps turned you into him – into a killer. You have to come to grips with the fact that you killed another human being." If she were any other woman, he would have thought she was about to cry.

His own memories rose then, and he looked away for a moment. "Because when you kill someone, you know, there's a cost." He let the shadow of his own memories show, to let her know she wasn't alone in this. "It's a steep cost. I know. I've done it."

There was a subtle shift in her expression. Acceptance?

"I did the right thing."

"I know. I was there."

There _was _an edge of tears in her eyes, but her mouth was curving in a effort to keep them at bay. But one fell anyway, landing on the photo she still held.

She sighed, disgusted, as she wiped it away. "Oh. Look what I did." She sniffled just like Parker might, making him want to offer a tissue. He refrained, knowing she wouldn't appreciate an acknowledgement of she undoubtedly saw as a weakness.

"It doesn't matter."

She sighed again, this time in exasperation. "It does. It matters." That was better--her voice was almost back to normal. Even if they weren't talking about the picture anymore. If they ever had been. She looked back down and he decided it was a good time for his little present.

"I got something for you," he said, reaching into his pocket.

"A bottle of hard liquor?" she mocked.

"The next best thing." There it was. He pulled it out, smiling, and held it out to her. "Hmm?" He leaned in close, the little pig between them. He chuckled as she regarded it dubiously. "Meet--Jasper." He offered her a variation on his charm smile; she smiled back in a _I can't believe you _way, then huffed a laugh.

He admired the curve of her fingers as she took it with her usual precision, barely grazing him, then pulled his hand back as she looked at the little pig.

Finally she chuckled.

"You're gonna be OK."

She stopped running her thumb along Jasper's snout. "Yeah?" she asked quietly, seeking some last reassurance.

"Definitely," he said firmly, quirking a half-smile. Her mouth echoed his as she ran her thumb over Jasper again and her body seemed to relax a little.

Yeah, she'd be all right. And, dammit, she'd be asking for a gun again within a month, too.


	10. The Woman in Limbo

_There's a lot to touch on in this episode, so I may come back. But this is a shorty that occurred to me--wait, I actually wrote a drabble?_

* * *

"And then mom and dad disappeared and Russ took off." Brennan looked pensive. "Suddenly, no one cared where I was. I miss that… Someone caring where I am all the time."

"Bones! Bones! You up there? Come on! Let's go," Booth called, backing into view. He clapped his hands, looking up at them. "Chop, chop! I found the agent that was assigned to your parents' case."

From the top of the stairs, Angela watched Brennan leave with Booth, his hand at her back, protective, comforting. _You only miss it, sweetie, because you're not looking._


	11. Pen and Paper

aka Parallel Lines. Inspired by the 100 Themes concept. Slight Hero in the Hold spoilers, so don't read if you don't like them. Also: potential tissue alert!

* * *

Hodgins handed her paper, another sheet torn from her book. She snatched it and a pen, and barely giving it any thought, began to write.

_Booth, I write this knowing it might truly be good bye. I know you believe in an afterlife and I don't--if my plan doesn't work, I may be finding out which of us is right sooner than later. If you are, then I shall hopefully take comfort in seeing my mother again, as well as you some time in the distant future. If not, well, it has been a pleasure to know you, to work with you. There are things I feel I should say, even though they might be painful. I hope you will forgive me in that._

_Please tell Ange Jack loved her to the end, and she remains my dearest friend, the sister I never had. Speak kindly to Zack; he needs the encouragement. He was the best student I ever had the privilege of teaching and I hope, no, __know__, he will do great things. Tell him I said that, that I mean it. Russ--Polo. If he ever hears from our Dad again, have him send my regrets that I couldn't find him myself. I wanted to, to find out if we could have been a family again. Cam--well I haven't known her very long, but I do wish her the best._

_Seeley. I have no words that properly explain things to you, nothing that can be summed up in a sentence or two. You have been my window on a wider world, a guide to things I no longer understand properly. Thank you for that, for restoring something I thought was long gone. Know it isn't your fault that you're reading this--you always try your best, and that is __never __anything to be ashamed of. I hope we have been able to provide you with enough clues to track this bastard down. I will certainly be cheering you on from that hypothetical afterlife._

_I hesitate to write this, for fear of hurting you more. But you should know that among those things you showed me, you showed me that love just might exist. It seems more real than Heaven does. I wish I could have told you that, told you that my feelings and thoughts on that have changed, and seen what new path opened. Forgive me for lightening my mind and laying the burden of "what could have happened" on you. I want you to live, to love and care for Parker, catch the bad guys. Remember us fondly and try not to blame yourself. Tell the team--none of you should blame yourselves._

_Always, Bones_

She folded it, wrote Booth's name on it, and tucked it into her pocket before turning back to the steering wheel for the airbag explosives. Wondering if she should check the passenger side--the SUV had them, but it might make the explosion too powerful.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Booth scowled at the pad and pen. Why he had been left with anything was a mystery; perhaps it was a subtle taunt. The Gravedigger hadn't left him with even the small number of things that he had left with Bones and Hodgins, not that he could come up with a similar solution on his own. But he had been left with pen and paper. Not even his own. With a snort, he noticed it was waterproof ink. Definitely a taunt.

Hodgins had written Angela a note, he knew--he had heard them talking about it once. Bones had never said what she did, nor had Hodgins, but the techs had noted there were at least two pages torn from her book. Logic (and he forced a smile at the term) indicated she had written a farewell note, too. Well, he would follow suit. One less thing to worry about.

_Bones. This might be it for me barring a miracle. Thank you for being my partner, for putting up with all of my alpha-male ways, for teaching me the inner workings of the world around me. Not your intent, I know, but it helped me see God's creation in a whole new light. No matter my destination (Purgatory seems likely and the best I can hope for), I will miss you. I wish I had been braver and told you what you truly mean to me. I love you, Bones. I'm sorry that I can only tell you now, but I thought I had time and I didn't want to upset you by saying so too soon. _

_Please stay in touch with Parker--teach him what you taught me. Let him bring some sunshine in your life. Tell him that I love him and never would leave him if I didn't have to. Tell him that I tried my hardest to return to all of you. Tell the Squints that I know they tried to find me, tried to catch this bastard, but they shouldn't blame themselves that it didn't work. I know you pushed and prodded, making every clue reveal twice what anyone else would see. Your gift._

_I know I said I would never betray you or leave you, Bones, but I have no choice now. Try to live wide. Remember to eat, for God's sake, and be careful in those damn digs you're always going on. God bless you._

_Seeley_

He hesitated over the signature--she called him Booth, always, but if there was anyone he would like to hear call him by his first name, it would be her. He folded up the paper, wrote Bones' name on it, and tucked it into an inner pocket. He then stared at the pen and paper and, deciding he couldn't afford to toss anything that might be useful, shoved them into his coat pocket. If this was it, then by God, he wasn't going to go down without a fight.


	12. Pie

Had a different story ready to go, but then on the radio this morning, I heard today was National Pie Day here in the good ol' US of A. Of course, I couldn't let that go unnoticed, could I?

* * *

"I don't like cooked fruit, Booth. You know that," Brennan protested yet again.

"It's National Pie Day, Bones," he replied, as though that explained everything. "You should have a piece today of all days. Here, just a bite," he coaxed, holding out his laden fork temptingly.

"_National Pie Day_?" She started at him before bursting out in laughter. "There's a day completely devoted to pie? You can't be serious!"

"So Google it later." Seeing that she wasn't going to bite, he ate the piece on his fork. "Not all pie is made of fruit, you know," he mused. Her eyes narrowed. "Wait a moment, Bones." He slid out of their booth and went to talk to the waitress and look at the pie display. The woman smiled at whatever he said before he returned.

"Booth--"

"Humor me, Bones."

She rolled her eyes, resisting the urge to stick her tongue out at him.

A few minutes later, the waitress slid a plate in front of her with a small slice of chocolate cream pie.

"Just made. And…no fruit," he pointed out. "Ah, come on, Bones. One bite, at least!"

She stared at it as he chuckled. "If you don't at least try it, then you're just being stubborn for the sake of being stubborn."

Outgunned, she reluctantly forked up the tiniest piece possible. Tasted it. Ignored the expression on his face as she thought about it. Gave _serious_ thought to denying everything and pushing it away.

Finally she sighed and took a bigger bite. "All right," she muttered. "It isn't bad. And I won't be having it all the time, either," she added for good measure. "The beneficial aspects of the chocolate are diluted by the sugar and whipped cream, not to mention the usual ingredients in the crust are high in cholesterol."

"Sure, Bones. Whatever you say," he replied with that cocky grin of his. She regally ignored him as she slowly savored the small piece of pastry heaven.


	13. Double Trouble in the Panhandle

Yes, yes, spoilers all the way. Oh, yeah--I have no way of recording, so some of the dialog is going to be off. Once again, if anyone knows where I can get S4 scripts/transcripts, please PM me. My gratitude would be boundless! (I may repeat this a few more times in regards to the current season--or until I get a faster Internet connection. I hear good things about Hulu.)

Actually, Fire in the Ice was the better episode (and that end scene--long dreamy sigh…), but here I am writing this instead. Can't argue much when the muse doesn't cooperate. Maybe after the rerun…

* * *

When Booth opened the door and stepped outside, he wasn't really all that surprised to see the grounds empty except for scattered debris. He walked out further, scrubbing at his head as though perplexed. _Plausible deniability_.

"They're gone?" Brennan asked, coming out with two cups of coffee.

"Yep." He came back to join her just outside the trailer.

She handed him a cup; he eyed it in in amusement, then deftly switched them. He wasn't going to drink out of a cup decorated with sunflowers, even if it might be bigger.

She studied the vacant scenery. "You didn't hear them?" she asked.

"No." Which had to be one of the bigger lies he had ever told. Lying in that sleeping bag on the floor of a very narrow mobile home was not the best place to get any sleep (his own fault for insisting they switch off nights in the bed; they could have tried a head-to-foot arrangement). And while the circus folk had tried to be quiet in packing up, there was no way they could be completely silent. The truck engines alone would have woken him.

Where do you suppose they are?"

"Over the horizon," he said as the wind blew a scrap of paper against his ankle; picking it up, he saw it was a flyer with them as the headliners. _Boris and Natasha and the Russian Knives of Death_. He chuckled before shoving it into a pocket. "You going to tell me you slept soundly all night, Bones?"

"Y-yes. Yes, Booth, I did." She fastened her eyes on her cup.

"You're getting better at that, Bones, but you still need practice." He sighed. "I suppose I'll have to put out a BOLO on them."

"If they're smart, they'll change the names, everything," she murmured. "And the ringmaster and the little guy seemed to be on top of things."

"Or skip the country. But no one can accuse us of not doing our jobs, right, Bones?"

"Right." She drank her coffee quietly as he prowled around their trailer.

"No signs of them, and the tracks end at the paved road."

She gave him a weak smile. "I suppose we're done here, then?"

"Yeah. Let's go home, Bones."

"I enjoyed being Wanda," she sighed, mounting the steps.

"Yeah, just a little _too _much. And when are you going to take that ridiculous outfit off?"

"What? Why? Don't you like it?"

"It's not bad, but what you wore as Roxie in Vegas was better." He eyed her with a grin. "But we're going to have to get you some acting lessons before we go undercover again, Bones. You were completely inconsistent."

"What?" she demanded, starting to get riled. "And you-you--" She took in his grin and shifted gears. "You wouldn't even talk about what we were supposed to do, Booth! If I was inconsistent as you say, then it was because you wouldn't give me anything to work with!" Her eyes were glinting with humor as he pulled the door shut behind them.

He laughed back; despite the strangeness of the assignment, the poignancy of the twins' fate, the disappearance of the circus, her black eye, _the clowns_, he felt surprisingly good, and so did she, by the looks of it. This was one time they wouldn't regret that the arrest didn't go through. _"There is a higher law than the law of government. That's the law of conscience,"_ he quoted to himself. _For this case at least_.

* * *

Quote from Stokely Carmichael (aka Kwame Ture). Bounced across it online--may not be strictly Booth's belief, but it captured the feeling I wanted.


	14. Remedial Class

Never tried second person before…so the title might refer to me as much as the story!

* * *

She turns from you, biting her lip in anger or embarrassment, you can't be sure which even after working with her for so long. You know you've been pushing it a little with all the corrections--even Cam is starting to give you funny looks. But you can't help it. Just as you can't help but wonder what kind of childhood she had--by choice or otherwise--every time she looks puzzled at references she _should _know. Who doesn't know Mr. Ed, for example? And this last one--Christ, how could she, with all her black belts, not have at the very least heard of the _Karate Kid_? The movies came out long before her parents left!

All right, that deserves an apology, you decide--later. In private.

Unfortunately for you, Bones decides to bring it up in front of Sweets, instead of discussing it in the diner or over takeout or even in her office.

"So, Agent Booth, why do you feel the need to constantly correct Dr. Brennan?"

"It's not _constantly_," you protest.

"Well, it's beginning to feel like it," she says hotly and some part of you cringes. "I'm getting tired of it, Booth."

"Look, Bones, I'm--I'm just trying to help you join the rest of the world, here! I know how you hate to be embarrassed." That's it--spin it 'til it's practically VTOL.

She looks suspicious and Sweets doubtful, but they both accept it for now. Guess you squirmed enough to make them believe you. That, and the mumbled apology and promise to try not to do it as much. You only hope you can keep it.

You think about it later that night, cold beer in hand and ESPN in the background. Yeah, it's partly what you said in Sweets' office, about wanting to bring her into sync with the rest of the world. But that isn't all of it, not by a long shot.

There's pity for being so cut off from the rest of the world, yes, but that's not something you could actually say to her. She'd kill you for it. Probably knows exactly how to execute the death by a thousand cuts--learned while trekking through China and Tibet, no doubt.

And then there's the real reason, which you wouldn't admit even under torture… Every time she opens that pretty mouth and a stream of squintese falls out, you feel…inadequate somehow. You're not used to feeling inferior anymore. You were top of your class both in Ranger training and at Quantico. You have one of the highest close rates in the entire FBI. Women flirt with you and it's not because you're ugly. (Even if you rarely reciprocate these days.) Maybe not the highest GPA in college but it was respectable. And you were a good athlete until your shoulder gave out.

But when Bones talks sometimes, none of that seems to matter anymore. You know she doesn't mean it--at least not any more. When you first started working together, maybe. You aren't as smart as her, you know it. Nowhere near the education that she has--or any of the squints, for that matter. So you display your mastery and belittle hers in one of the few arenas you can, with your favorite proving ground the Jeffersonian itself. Selfish bastard that you are. Making the person closest to you unhappy just to pump your own ego a little more. Selfish doesn't begin to describe it, and you wonder about making amends. With Bones, your usual methods won't work; you're going to have to work at it. Well, you always did love a challenge.


	15. Desert Angel

Set during the 1st Gulf War. Booth's rank is purely arbitrary at this point. Inspired by Stevie Nicks' "Desert Angel," which was dedicated to those serving in Operation Desert Storm.

* * *

"Mail call!"

All of the men in the ward perked up their ears--it's a military cliché, but truly, when you're flat on your back or confined to bed, those pieces of home are all the more precious.

Corporal Seeley Booth groaned as he tried to shift in his bed. There hadn't been a letter from home in a while due to his sudden relocation to the hospital ship and he had hopes that they might have finally forwarded them.

"Anderson, Steven!"

There was an advantage to having a last name close to the beginning of the alphabet--he didn't have to wait too long. There were disadvantages, too, but at the moment, those didn't matter.

"Benton, Brian!"

"Booth, Seeley!"

_Yes! Oh_. There was only one, addressed to "any soldier." A girl's handwriting, unfamiliar. _Damn_.

He went ahead and opened it. Any letter was better than none, he supposed.

_Hi! My name's Angela. And you are supposed to be an extremely hot soldier in a country almost as hot as I hope you are. I'm going to pretend you look like Tom Cruise. Hope you don't mind! Anyway, consider me your beam of sunshine and one-person cheering squad. I suppose I should tell you a little about myself--I live in California with my mom and sometimes with my dad when he's home. _[here she had drawn a little waterfall of music notes along the margin] _I'm an artist and better with pencil than pen if you know what I mean. That's what I hope to do with my life. Exciting, right?_

_I don't really know what I should say to a man fighting a war. I don't know anything about war or fighting or anything you're going thru, except the TV says it's miserable. And I don't know how old you are--you could be barely older than me or old enough to be my dad. You might like country music or rap or love sci-fi flicks. A jock or a complete nerd in school. That's all right if you're a nerd--there's some cute ones in my class and they are always so helpful when you need it._

_But not knowing these things makes it hard to know what to write, you know? So I think I should fall back on what I know._

The rest of the page was filled with small sketches: befuddled camels and veiled Bedouins, palm trees, an ocean view with a surfer falling off his board, a mountain range and forest marked simply "home." A big city with rushing cartoon cars screaming at each other. Superman. Wildly patterned fish with weirdly shaped bubbles. A well defined iris. What looked like a Catholic schoolgirl, complete with plaid skirt and a cape, labeled "Super Sophomore." A small cheerleader with pom-poms bigger than her yelling "GO USA!"

At the very bottom was one more line of writing: _You guys are doing a great job over there. I hope and pray you all return safely. A._

And a last sketch of praying hands. Booth set it down on his lap, both amused and touched. She may not have known what to say, but she had said it, nonetheless.

----------------------------------------

Surprised ya, didn't I? At least I hope I did.

(Yes, I know she wasn't born Angela, but go with me on this, please--we don't know when she had that dream, just that she changed her name when she was 18)


	16. Introduction

Inspired by the 100 Themes concept. Somehow, I'm enjoying playing with things from before the pilot episode. We'll be back to original programming eventually. Oh, I suppose I should mention (not that I think she's reading, but you never know, and it's only polite) that the character of "Super Sophomore" mentioned oh-so-briefly in the last chapter was the creation of a high school friend of mine.

This does link into chap. 4, by the way.

* * *

"Dr. Brennan, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI. He's replacing Agent Dimitri," Goodman said. "Agent Booth, Dr. Temperance Brennan, our forensic anthropologist."

Booth held out his hand; she regarded it curiously--and warily?--before nodding. "Agent Booth," she said, not extending her own gloved one in return.

Goodman sighed and shook his head at her. "Amicable, Dr. Brennan--remember?"

She gave him an opaque stare, then nodded reluctantly at Booth before bending back over her worktable and its skeleton.

"So," Booth said, trying to get a feel for her once Goodman had left. Cullen had said she was supposed to be brilliant, and her reports from the earlier cases certainly seemed to support it. Water cooler talk, on the other hand, had indicated she was a complete pain--stuck-up, aloof, a bitch, the Ice Queen: you name it, she had been called it. He knew a number of agents had failed to get along with her, but… Well, they weren't him. Not to brag, but he had a way with women. And for all that she was some brilliant genius scientist-squint, she was still a woman. Right?

She hadn't responded to his tentative overture, though. Not a good sign. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. "Ahem."

"Yes, Agent Booth?" she asked coolly, not lifting her eyes from her work. "If you're coming down with a cold, please step away from the remains before you compromise them."

"I'm fine," he assured her. "Um, so. May I call you--"

"'Dr. Brennan'? Yes, that would be acceptable." _Now_ she looked up at him and it was just like the challenges in all the old movies; he could almost hear the swords clash.

"That's a little formal for two people working together," he said. "What do your friends call you?"

"Since we are unlikely to become friends, but merely collaborators, I would say it doesn't matter. Zack!" she suddenly called and one of the squints working at some strange machine (too complex for a simple microscope) joined her, young and lanky and awkward.

"Yes, Dr. Brennan?"

"Did you look at the ulna on this skeleton? What did you see?"

The boy rattled off a long string of squintese in response, and Booth watched, still seeking clues. He prided himself on reading people, but she wasn't giving him much. Pretty woman, brainy, lots of ice was all he had so far.

"Very good, Zack," she praised him at the end, a small genuine smile crossing her face. Booth's eyebrows rose; so she wasn't _completely_ the Ice Queen. "Oh, and by the way, Zack, this is Agent Booth. Dr. Goodman informs me he is replacing Agent Dimitri. Agent Booth, my assistant and intern, Zack Addy."

Zack nodded at him; he reminded Booth of a young stork, ungainly, unfinished. "Nice to meet you, Agent Booth," he said. Like his boss, he didn't hold out a hand, though it wasn't for the same reason, Booth was sure. Addy struck him as someone not comfortable with people and normal behavior, while Brennan was more impatient and snotty with them. He began to understand why the other agents gave him such sympathetic looks. If all the squints were like this, he wasn't going to be spending much time here.

She sighed, and he was aware those clear eyes were looking at him. He smiled at her, his best charm smile; her expression didn't even flicker. "Zack, why don't you go get Hodgins and Angela so we can complete the social expectations. And tell Hodgins I want those reports for the NSA case. I want to get them out of here."

"And who are Hodgins and Angela?" Booth asked as the kid turned and left the platform.

"The rest of my team," she replied absently, already bent back over the table. "It would be more efficient for them to come here rather than for me to escort you around. I'm quite busy this week."

His eyes narrowed at that. "Dr. Brennan," he started, but was interrupted by the beep of the access reader and a woman's voice.

"So, sweetie, what's the big news? Oh," she murmured, dark eyes taking him in appreciatively. "I think I see. Dimwit no longer with us?"

"Something like that," Brennan murmured. "I'll explain once Hodgins gets here." She lifted a bone and examined it. Another beep made her lower it again and regard Addy and another man, shorter and bearded, as they came up the steps. The other man brandished a file.

"It just finished, Dr. Brennan."

"Good. I'll take a look at it as soon as I'm done here." She straightened up. "The FBI has sent us a new agent."

"What, again?" Hodgins said in disbelief. "They're going to run out at this rate."

She shrugged. "That would be their problem, and not ours. Agent Booth, this is Angela Montenegro, our forensic artist and facial reconstructionist, and Dr. Jack Hodgins, our particulates expert. Ange, Hodgins, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth. If you would explain to him our routine, I need to get this report done. And _don't_ touch the bones, Agent Booth." She stripped off her gloves, caught up the file, and disappeared. Leaving Booth absolutely dumbfounded.

"Why would I want to do that?" he asked with distaste plain on his face.

"Eh. Some of the previous agents tried," Hodgins said, folding his arms. "Only once, though." Angela smiled and rolled her eyes.

"Bren is very particular about these things," she added. "Handling them with bare hands tends to leave skin oils and so forth on the bone which interferes with her examination." She looked him over. "You _look_ smarter than Agent Coffey, at any rate."

_Agent Coffey, Coffey… Wasn't he the one out on medical leave for a dislocated shoulder a month ago? Oh. Oh!_ He shot a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction she had headed. When he looked back, the older squints were grinning.

"Yep. Bren's a fighter," Angela told him. "I'm in a bit of a lull right now, Agent Booth--or is it Seeley?"

"Booth's fine," he told her.

"All right then…Booth. Like I was saying, I'm got some time, so let me give you the grand tour." She tugged at his arm, guiding him off the platform.

The men watched them go, then Hodgins spoke. "How long do you give him?"


	17. Valentine Oblique

This tale of Valentine's Day is actually tied into my story Oblique (hence the title).

And it's probably a good time to restate the disclaimer: don't own any of them, wish I did--'cause then I could keep the show on track.

* * *

"Daddy, I want to see Dr. Bones," Parker announced with a mulish expression on his face. "Mr. Max said she's working today."

"Probably is, bub," Booth replied, flicking a glance at his son in the backseat. "She works too much, sometimes."

"But it's _Saturday_! Saturday isn't for school, or working!"

"You're absolutely right, Parker, but Bones doesn't believe that. I'll tell you a secret--she _likes _to work."

"Doesn't she like other things?"

Booth hesitated, wondering how exactly he could explain. He couldn't go into the real reasons she often buried herself in her work with his seven-year-old son. "Yes. Yes, she does, but work comes first for her."

"What else does she like?" Parker asked innocently.

"Dolphins," Booth answered. "Daffodils. Karate. Writing. Catching bad guys." _Driving me insane_.

"Does she like candy?"

"I think so. Why?" When Parker didn't answer, Booth glanced at him again in the mirror. His son was rooting through his backpack, obviously looking for something. Something red peeked around the zipper and he pushed it back down as he kept looking.

"Can we go see her? _Please_, daddy? Pretty please with sugar on top?"

Parker's pleading look was too much for Booth. "All right, bub, but not for long, OK? Bones does important work and she doesn't always like to be interrupted. And we've got plans this afternoon, too, remember?"

"All right, daddy." He settled back into his seat. All too soon, Booth realized, his little boy would be too big for any sort of car seat. Of course, when he had been that age, he already was deemed too big--the rules had shifted a lot in those thirty-odd years.

They pulled into the Jeffersonian complex, taking a spot a little closer to the door than he usually got because it was so empty. But Bones' car was there, just as he expected. "Well, she's here all right," he announced, opening the back door. Parker bounced right out, backpack on one shoulder, enthusiasm shining from his face.

At the door, Parker got a visitor's badge clipped to him by a smiling guard. "She's in her office, Agent Booth," the man said.

"How long this time?" Booth asked, bracing himself for the worst.

"Oh, only 'bout an hour so far."

"Thanks. C'mon, Parks, let's go."

They had walked past the platform and around the little stations when Booth started to hear music. Strange, since Bones didn't play music while she was working. _I don't recognize it_. It was soft and lilting, almost inviting, and he found he kind of liked it.

His hand came to rest on Parker's shoulder and he mimed silence when the boy looked up. Parker nodded, a brilliant smile on his face as they neared Brennan's office.

The track changed; to his shock, he could hear her voice, too. His hand tightened on Parker for a moment as he looked around the corner into her office. She was working at something on her computer, eyes intent on the screen, hair pulled up in a loose ponytail, absently singing along.

_I wish I was in Carrickfergus  
Where the castle looks out to sea  
I would swim over the deepest ocean  
For my love to be with me_

_But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over  
Nor have I the wings for to fly  
I wish I had a handsome boatsman  
To ferry me over, my love and I_

_I wish I was in the land of Erin  
Where the mountains meet the sea  
Where flowers blossom as I do remember  
Where my true love came to me_

_But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over  
Nor have I the wings for to fly  
Ah to be back now in Carrickfergus  
To be together, my love and I  
To be together, my love and I_

_I wish I was in Carrickfergus  
I wish I was in Carrickfergus  
I wish I was back home again_

"Very nice, Bones," Booth said. She jerked in surprise and stared at him. "Thought we'd come by and say hi," he told her, ignoring the color that ran up her face.

"We?" she managed, reaching for a bottle of water. "Must you sneak up on me?"

"Would you deny me a little fun? Don't answer that," he teased and stepped aside, allowing Parker to burst in.

"Hi, Dr. Bones!"

"Parker! What a nice surprise!"

"You sing really nice," he told her and her color deepened. She actually began to fidget a bit in her chair, and not just because she was uncomfortable with the praise. Bitterness briefly twisted Booth's smile as he understood her discomfort.

"You do, Bones," he couldn't help agreeing. "And look--everything's calm. No explosions, no…trouble or anything like that," he said, voice trailing off uncertainly. "Anyway, we're just here to say hi. Parker wanted to stop by. He can't believe you like to work, especially on such a nice sunny _Saturday_."

Parker smiled up at her with his father's smile and she felt herself melt a little. _He is so cute, and he's going to be trouble when he's older_, she thought, returning the smile. _Just like his oblivious, obstinate, and so far, unobtainable father! _"It's always nice to see you, Parker." She let herself hug him and accepted the slightly damp kiss he pressed to her cheek. "Sometimes it's nice to work on Saturdays because it's quiet," she told both of them; only Booth read her pointed tone, however. "I guess it's time to take a break," she added for Parker's benefit.

"I have something for you, Dr. Bones," he told her, dropping his backpack and digging through it.

She shot a glance at Booth, who shrugged. He seemed to be enjoying the way they were interacting, and she knew he would keep her from saying or doing anything inappropriate. "Go ahead and sit down, Booth," she told him. No point in mentioning just yet that she had been thinking about him earlier. It'd only make him run, and, frankly, the prospect of both Booth boys' company was rather pleasant. She'd take take it, any way she could get it right now. _And if that doesn't sound pathetic_, she chided herself.

"What'cha working on?" he asked, dropping onto the couch.

"Just some requests from television and movie studios. Every year, we are asked to verify some of the science they want to use. Not that they listen. But it's pretty basic stuff."

"And that's why you've got the music going," he added, understanding. "It won't distract you from such simple work."

"Exactly. It's basic enough that my dad could do most of it, if we could let him. There's a few things for a new forensics show that require a higher science, though. But I hate to waste a regular workday on it." She hesitated slightly. "And somehow the lab seemed extra quiet today."

He let that slide past. "I vaguely remember you mentioning you did that once. Do you ever watch any of these things you set on the right path?"

"No. I've seen enough to know they simplify it down past what is acceptable."

Parker by this point had found what he was looking for and was waiting for them to stop talking, shifting from one foot to another. Brennan noticed his rising impatience and held up a hand to silence Booth. "Yes, Parker?"

"Happy Valentine's Day, Dr. Bones!" he exclaimed, putting a red piece of paper and a small box on the desk in front of her, then took one step back, looking suddenly bashful.

"Thank you, Parker," she replied and slid the box to the side in order to look at the paper. Her mouth twitched as she looked at it, and she let it grow into a genuine smile before leaning over and kissing him. "This is very sweet, and very--sparkly." She turned it to show Booth the heavily glittered and sequined handmade card. Wavery white crayon in the center spelled out "HAPPY VALENTINES DAY."

"Nicky at school says girls like lots of shiny and sparkly things," Parker explained. "So I made sure to put lots on for you."

She ignored the red and silver glitter that fell onto her desk every time she moved it. "It's lovely, Parker." She picked up the little box and discovered it was filled with conversation hearts. "I haven't had these since I was a little girl," she said. "Will you have a couple with me while I see if they're still as good as I remember?"

"Can I, Daddy?"

"Go ahead, buddy. It's long enough after breakfast."

Brennan dumped them out on a clean part of her desk and began flipping some over to read what was printed on them. "I see they've changed some of the sayings. 'Email me'?"

"They're just trying to stay up to date."

She chuckled and popped one in her mouth. "Taste hasn't changed much, however."

Booth couldn't help smiling at the sight of Bones and Parker sorting through the little pile of candy; he didn't notice her pushing a few aside as Parker made his selections. His mind returned to the song she had been singing--it sounded suspiciously like a love song, which really didn't seem like her style. He pondered it as they picked though the candy, with laughter that was strangely close to giggles. _Maybe Valentine's Day means something to her. Damned if I know what, considering her usual stance on holidays_. He toyed with sending some flowers, or would that be going too far? After all, they were just partners…

Parker plopping next to him with a huge handful of candy brought his attention back to the present. He was busy telling Bones about the Valentines exchange his class had done and how he made a card for his mom, too, but he had glued the red construction paper heart to a paper doily and used stickers instead of glitter for hers.

Brennan, remarkably soft and un-Bones-like the entire time, kept up the conversation, asking Parker about what they were learning in school, nodding at just the right spots, even agreeing to come by and say hello when his class came to the museum for a field trip, and definitely when they were working with Max.

"As long as I'm not chasing bad guys with your dad, of course."

"Mr. Max or Miss Angela would tell me that, right?"

"Of course they would."

"Then that's all right. Emmy says sometimes 'dults say things just to make kids go away."

Brennan shook her head. "I wouldn't do that. It's not right--and you're old enough to understand that sometimes your dad has to work strange hours."

"That's one way of putting it," Booth said, then checked his watch. "Whoops--Parks, it's lunchtime. Hate to leave you, Bones, but we have plans after we eat."

"We're going to see a movie!" Parker told her, excited all over again.

"Then I hope you have fun. I'm glad you came, though," she murmured, standing up to follow them to the door. "Here--do you want a couple?" she asked.

"Sure. Why not?" He held out his hand and she dropped two into his palm. He shook his head. "Temperance Brennan, Queen of the Literal."

"You should always say what you mean," she chided him lightly. "Didn't I just finish telling your son that?"

"Bye, Dr. Bones!" Parker said, hugging her.

"Bye, Parker. Come by anytime." She ruffled his curls before he took his father's hand to leave.

Booth was about to pop the candy in his mouth, but old habits made him look at what was written on them first. _Cutie Pie. Be Mine_. He blinked and looked back over his shoulder at her. She still stood in her office door, a mysterious smile on her face.

* * *

OK, was that fluff or cheese? Actually, this is _very _loosely based on something that happened to me when I was younger (message via conversation hearts).

The song is "Carrickfergus," the _Feet of Flames_ version (mostly traditional).


	18. The Skull in the Desert

_GOODMAN: You're taking a vacation in the desert with no notice?_

_HODGINS: I don't get the attraction. I really don't. Snakes, scorpions— _

_BRENNAN: It should only be for a few days._

_HODGINS: Buzzards and snakes. _

…

Brennan desperately wished Hodgins would shut up about the snakes as she headed for the door, bags in hand. She was all for increasing scientific knowledge, but if he hadn't been involved in that damned sampling a couple years ago, she could have kept her phobia to herself and continued to maintain the professional stoicism she so valued for a little longer.

* * *

_When she entered the side lab that day, Hodgins turned to face her with a snake in his hands. A snake that squirmed and hissed at her from less than two feet away. She dropped the file she was holding, and took an involuntary step back, then a second, heart rate jumping. Pride alone kept her from bolting when it seemed to ooze out of his hands a little. Well, that, and the slowly sinking-in awareness that this was a non-venomous _colubrid_._

"_Dr. Brennan?" Hodgins hastily dropped the snake into a terrarium, where it coiled and hissed unhappily. "Are you all right?"_

"_I'll be fine, Dr. Hodgins." She stooped to pick up the file, forcing her hand to stop shaking and hiding the other in the depths of her lab coat's pocket. "Does Dr. Goodman know you're playing with snakes?"_

"_Yes, I'm assisting with the mitochondrial DNA research for the further classification of the family_ Colubridae_." She could see other safely contained snakes behind him. "Getting samples, mostly, since the actual DNA work is not my field. All duly authorized." He looked at her again. "Are you sure you're all right?"_

"_I'm fine; I just wasn't expecting snakes in the lab." His eyes traveled from her fingers, wrapped white-knuckled around the file, to her slightly dilated pupils, to the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead._

"_I understand," he said carefully. "They'll be here another week at least," he informed her, turning back to his work._

_She managed a stiff nod of acknowledgement before escaping for the safety of her office._

* * *

No. Despite Hodgins' harking on about _Squamata Serpentes_, she was going to help Angela. In the desert. Snakes or no snakes.

She knew she could keep herself under control so long she wasn't suddenly presented with one. All right, it was a warning, then. Because she was going; her best friend _needed _her. Nothing and no one was going to get in her way. Not even snakes.


	19. The Man in the Morgue

This is in response to a semi-challenge from blc in reference to the last chapter. I had forgotten about the snake in New Orleans, and now I must needs go back and see if I can't work it out somehow. (Tsk; writers leaving holes big enough to drive a Mack truck through--why couldn't she have been afraid of anything else in Mummy in the Maze? Piranhas, maybe? Bees? Chickens?)

* * *

"I need to check the tags," Brennan said, frustrated. John Doe 361 was real, she knew it, even if she couldn't remember him. But there were x-rays, real ones, of a real body; she had sent them to DC, to her team. She clung to that thought as she headed for the freezer room. There are x-rays; therefore there is a body. Simple logic. The simplest.

"Ah, Dr. Brennan, you might want to be careful--Sam's in there, performing a last blessing for the deceased, and his pet snake could be a little skittish."

_Great. What else can go wrong? _she wondered. _Missing memories, vanishing corpses, interfering partners, not to mention somehow getting beaten and losing Mom's earring, and now a snake. All I need now is to be arrested_. Her lips tightened and her momentum checked slightly. But her need to know, to examine, to see for herself, overrode that initial spurt of fear. _Besides, I know it's in there. No surprises._

She dialed the lab and set the phone on speaker. The more she had to keep herself occupied, the less likely she would lose any composure. It was an old technique, and so far, it hadn't failed her. And as she talked to Zack and Angela, Booth trailing her with the phone and inserting a few comments of his own, she began to rapidly examine all the body tags. She didn't think anyone noticed that she was starting on the far side of the temporary room. That was easily explained, anyway.

She did manage to get wrapped up enough between the phone call and the search that she didn't realize that she had actually pushed past Sam and his snake until she was done examining tags.

Once finished talking with the lab, she waved a hand at Booth to turn off the phone. His eyes were locked on Sam, snake about his shoulders, chanting prayers. Personally, Brennan figured they were about as valid as any other belief system, but would never dream of interrupting what was plainly an important ritual for him. The anthropologist in her was too strong.

Booth apparently had fewer compunctions about it. "How do we know this is not the guy shoving mojo bags into dead people?"

"Those spells are the work of a sorcerer. Priests--_houngans_--can make healing mojos, but I'm not allowed."

"But snake shaking, that's fine?"

She took a step closer to Sam and looked at the snake he was holding. She couldn't identify the exact species, but he did have a grip on it. And it wasn't hissing, at least, or tasting the air with its tongue. Aware of Booth watching her, she stretched out a hand and delicately stroked its underside with a gloved hand, as much to freak in? out? her partner as to prove something to herself. She focused intently on the snake, tuning out the two men. _This isn't so bad_, she realized with some surprise and let her fingers curl around it. _Not that I would want to be alone with it or handle it myself. But maybe they aren't so terrifying after all._ For some reason, she trusted Sam to keep it under control.

"Hey, Bones, how's about while you're a murder suspect, you, uh, act more like a normal woman and less like Lily Munster, okay?" Booth said, snapping her out of her reverie.

The name rang a vague bell as she let the snake curl about her wrist. More of her unease slid away as the snake continued to behave. Feeling quite daring now, she actually stroked the head with her bare hand, much as she would pet a mouse or a bird.

She never thought about how she was upsetting Booth, of all people, until he caught at her arm to pull her away. "Good bye. Good snake. Bye-bye. That's it," Booth added, pushing her towards the exit. "Call me crazy, but I'm suspicious of snake man."

She sighed. "That's because you've been inculcated by the mainstream culture's prevailing Judeo-Christian tradition into instinctive skepticism of alternative mores," she said loftily, knowing it would irk him. Her split lip made it surprisingly easy to stifle the smile the tugged at her mouth. _Maybe things aren't all bad. I've managed to annoy Booth thoroughly and maybe made strides towards ending an old phobia. Now all we have to do is find John Doe 361 and go home. Nothing to it._

----------------------------

Blame it on the voodoo, if you like.


	20. Mummy in the Maze

This feels a bit...off...to me; am I being too particular (ahem, cough, fishing for compliments, cough)? Anyway, here we have the 3rd part of the snaky triptych. Do tell me how I did!

* * *

Booth regarded his partner with a fishy stare. It had been an exceptionally long and crappy night. He'd had to give way (_show throat_) to Bones and get kicked out of an office as a result, been outgunned in a firefight, shot twice (oh, all right, hers had been a ricochet and certainly not intentional, but _still_…), killed someone in a clown suit, and he wasn't sure his back hadn't been knocked out of whack when he had to carry Bones. Granted, they had rescued the girl, but the scales weren't quite balanced so far as he was concerned.

His mind kept returning to the last thought but one, however: why, why, _why_ had Bones freaked out so badly with the snakes? She had practically been a damned snake handler in New Orleans a couple years ago, what was different?

"Booth! Stop looking at me like that," she said in a tone that suggested she had already said it at least once. He focused his gaze back on her--she was as big a mess as he was, though without the blood. She had pulled off the tiara when they entered the diner and now it sat on the table near her plate. She still looked hot, under all the dirt and fatigue, though. The top of her outfit--wow. And those legs… _Wonderful_, he thought again.

"Sorry, Bones." He forked up a bit of pie and savored the taste. God, he deserved it tonight--_and _the ice cream on the side. _Thank God it's Halloween. Only time of year we could come in looking like this and not have them immediately dial 911._ "Gotta ask, what was with you tonight?"

"What do you mean?"

"The snakes," he clarified; she flinched.

"What about them?" she asked cautiously.

He leaned back, wincing, and favored her with a lighter version of his interrogation stare. "Well, I don't know, Bones. A couple years ago in N'Awlins," he exaggerated for effect, "you were all over that voodoo guy and his pet snake. Tonight--you completely freak out and act like a _girl _with a mouse running under her feet. With non-poisonous snakes, no less."

"Non-venomous," she corrected him automatically.

"Same difference to the laymen in the room, Bones. Venom, poison--six of one, half a dozen of the other."

"Six _is _half--oh, I get it." She sipped the tea she had opted for.

"So?" Now he leaned forward. "What happened? I've been with you for the better part of the last three years, Bones, and I don't remember seeing anything that would have given you a phobia in all that time."

"It wasn't in the last three years," she said quietly. "And I'm a better actress than you realize if you thought I was completely calm with Sam's snake."

"But you had your hands all over it," he protested. "Hell, you were _petting _it!"

"Systematic desensitization therapy, Sweets might call it," she replied, wrapping her hands about the cup as though for warmth. "And I can stand being in the room with a snake so long as I know it's there." His sharp eyes caught the suppressed shudder that ran through her. "It--helps if they're not hissing, either." She looked down, studying her hands for a moment. "I was terrified, Booth," she finally said. "The only thing that kept me in there was the fact that I was warned; well, that, and I had something to do. Why else do you think you were following me with the phone? I could have had that discussion at almost any time." A more visible shudder ran over her. "It's an irrational fear--or perhaps in my case, an extreme form of a natural fear. After all, that's what phobias are. You should know, given your coulrophobia," she added.

"Can we lay off the clowns?" he growled. The corners of her mouth twitched upwards.

"Ophidiophobia--fear of snakes--is somewhat more rational than coulrophobia," she pointed out. "After all, snake bites are usually painful and sometimes fatal. An unarmed clown generally can't do that much damage to a fully-grown man in his prime. Such as yourself," she added, the smirk growing. "But if you'd like, we can find another topic of discussion."

"Thank you."

Their conversation wandered down the usual paths for a while before Booth brought it back.

"Megan was lucky you were able to overcome your fear," he remarked idly.

"I compartmentalize very well, as you know," she murmured. "And I knew we couldn't allow ourselves to be trapped in that room. There was no cover--and all the snakes, of course."

"You heard Charlie--a snake crawled up the drain and scared her when she was a girl; what caused yours?" He put on his best _it's just an innocent question _look, coupled with puppy-dog eyes, until she sighed.

"Fine. The bluff notes version."

"Cliff notes, Bones--I think you mean cliff notes."

"Did you want an answer or not?" she demanded, giving him an evil look. "I'd be perfectly content to not talk about it."

"Sorry," he apologized. "I won't interrupt again."

"If only that were true," she muttered very, _very _quietly. "All right," she continued in a louder voice. "When I was seven, one of Russ's friends dropped a snake on me. An adult _Python regius_. Ball python," she clarified.

"Russ, huh? Sure you don't know where he is, Bones?" he asked, fist tightening.

"He wasn't involved--not with the snake anyway." Now she smiled slightly. "He _was _behind some of the other and admittedly rather poor attempts to scare me, however. He and Darren rounded up some rather robust examples of _Rana __catesbeiana_, for example."

"This Darren--he had sisters, probably younger ones, right?" She nodded slowly, a slightly suspicious look on her face. "Don't give me that look, Bones; I'm a big brother myself, even if I had no sisters. I'm just saying I know the mindset. Go on."

"Fine. He was rather disappointed when I didn't scream like his sisters. I've never minded frogs, and the lizards and spiders were quite obviously made of rubber, even when they suddenly arrived on the pages of the book I was reading. I usually just flung them back."

Booth chuckled, enjoying the images that brought up.

"I think Russ told him they wouldn't work and saw no harm in it. What I didn't know and Russ didn't think about was that Darren had this snake. And he was bound and determined to get some reaction--or so I surmised much later on."

"I think I know where this is going. He brought out the snake, didn't he?"

"Yes. Somehow he got it and himself into our tree without anyone noticing. I climbed into the hammock we had, and next thing I know, there's this…thing…half-wrapped about me, and it kept moving." Her fingers tightened on the cup as her eyes dropped. "Hissing in my ear. I didn't know anything about snakes then, and so when it tested the air, I thought it was tasting me. I screamed loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear me. Darren thought it was hysterical," she added flatly.

"I'm sure he did. What happened then?" Booth asked, feeling a new surge of resentment at the moron who dared treat his Bones like that.

"Russ and Dad came running out of the house and Dad nearly strangled the snake in pulling it off of me. Russ yanked Darren out of the tree and punched him. I think he might have broken his nose." There was a touch of satisfaction in her voice at that thought. "The snake disappeared for several days and I wouldn't step foot outside until it was caught. Lastly, Russ and Darren weren't friends anymore." Now her lips quirked. "And if we don't stop talking about snakes, I'm going to bring up clowns again."

He let it go, respecting threat and promise both. Instead, he offered her a wide grin. "Y'know, Bones, I learned something tonight." He waited a beat. "_Someone _watched too much Lynda Carter when she was a girl!"

"Booth!" Her brilliant flush made the scales even out just a little. Yep, rescued the girl _and_ made Bones blush. Not such a bad date (or whatever), after all.

* * *

And the show throat crack...well, I think I've been reading too many fics with the phrase "alpha-male" in it! Gonna happen eventually.


	21. Mirror

_Title from the 100 Themes. Basically, the flip side of Introduction._

* * *

Temperance Brennan didn't pay any attention to the electronic beep that indicated someone had come up on the platform--the medieval skeleton in front of her was far too absorbing, not to mention Dr. Goodman had indicated a certain amount of dispatch in making her assessment was required.

"Dr. Brennan," the man himself said, breaking her concentration. "This is Special Agent Seeley Booth of the FBI. He's replacing Agent Dimitri. Agent Booth, Dr. Temperance Brennan, our forensic anthropologist."

She looked up; the agent held out his hand to her. "Dr. Brennan."

_Idiot_, she thought. _Can't he see I'm wearing gloves?_ "Agent Booth," she replied, deciding it wasn't worth removing one just to replace it. He was just another coccygodynian from the Hoover, so far as she was concerned.

"Amicable, Dr. Brennan--remember?" Goodman reminded her with a long sigh. She gave him a long look, silently reminding him of his own wishes about the skeleton, but he kept looking at her. Stifling her own sigh, she nodded at the agent briefly before turning her attention back to the skeleton.

"So," he started. She ignored him for the moment, there was something unusual on the left ulna…

He cleared his throat in a sound reminiscent of illness. "Ahem."

"Yes, Agent Booth?" she asked, still engrossed with the anomaly she had found. _I wonder if Zack saw it_.. "If you're coming down with a cold, please step away from the remains before you compromise them." _Hmmm. An indention; perhaps a weapon? A misericorde or perhaps a pavade? I suppose it could have even been a steel-tipped quarrel near the extreme end of its range. Whatever it was, it struck hard enough to leave this mark and crack the bone_.

"I'm fine," he said hastily. "Um, so. May I call you--"

"'Dr. Brennan'? Yes, that would be acceptable."

"That's a little formal for two people working together," he said. "What do your friends call you?"

_Of course, he would be the inquisitive one_, she thought, resigned. _Four other agents from the FBI and not one has the time to exchange pleasantries and this one has to know everything. Not that he'll be any more accommodating than the others._ "Since we are unlikely to become friends, but merely collaborators, I would say it doesn't matter. Zack!"

"Yes, Dr. Brennan?"

"Did you look at the ulna on this skeleton? What did you see?" She took her teaching responsibilities far more seriously than she did the forced links between the museum and law enforcement. And Zack had the potential to become a good forensic anthropologist--certainly equalling Dr. Stires and maybe even matching her. It would be a crime on her part to neglect that, to not help him develop his skill.

Zack bent over the skeleton with her and pointed out the same indention and crack she had seen, speculating on the causes. "It could have been a lesser blow than you postulated, Dr. Brennan," he said respectfully. "I noted there's significant bone marrow edema, indicating a long healing fracture, that potentially weakened the rest of the bone."

"Very good, Zack," she praised him at the end, smiling at him. And the agent was still there, watching them. _Why doesn't he leave?_

She was sure she had detected discomfort or some other negative reaction to Zack's speech, however. Continued exposure would send him packing. _I think that's how Ange phrased it_…

Too, he was beginning to remind her of several males she had dealt with over her life--overbearing, chauvinistic, full of themselves. The kind who think they're irresistible to women. She flicked a glance at him as she introduced him to Zack. Admittedly, he was rather attractive in his way; symmetrical, apparently well-structured. Angela would probably be all over him.

And when he gave her that smarmy smile, she knew she had classified him correctly. "Zack, why don't you go get Hodgins and Angela so we can complete the social expectations. And tell Hodgins I want those reports for the NSA case. I want to get them out of here."

"And who are Hodgins and Angela?" Booth asked.

"The rest of my team," she replied, returning her attention to the skeleton. There were other aspects of it to analyze, such as how the age indicated by epiphyseal fusion did not match that of the cranial sutures. "It would be more efficient for them to come here rather than for me to escort you around. I'm quite busy this week."

"Dr. Brennan," he started to say in what she read as an annoyed voice, but was interrupted by the beep of the access reader.

"So, sweetie, what's the big news? Oh," Angela murmured. "I think I see. Dimwit no longer with us?"

"Something like that. I'll explain once Hodgins gets here." She lifted the radius and examined it closely, running her fingers along the surface, searching for anything deviating from the normal. The access reader beeped again and she carefully set the bone back down. Hodgins gave her a nod, brandishing a file.

"It just finished, Dr. Brennan."

"Good. I'll take a look at it as soon as I'm done here." She straightened up. "The FBI has sent us a new agent."

"What, again?" Hodgins said in disbelief. "They're going to run out at this rate."

She shrugged. "That would be their problem, and not ours. Agent Booth, this is Angela Montenegro, our forensic artist and facial reconstructionist, and Dr. Jack Hodgins, our particulates expert. Ange, Hodgins, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth. If you would explain to him our routine, I need to get this report done. And _don't_ touch the bones, Agent Booth," she added, thoughts of that one agent--she couldn't remember his name--who had dared to handle the evidence with bare hands drifting through her mind. She stripped off her gloves, caught up the file, and headed for her office, relieved that she didn't have to waste time on Seeley Booth.

As she sat at her desk, she caught a glimpse of Angela leading Agent Booth off the platform, and absently wondered if he would hold out any longer than his predecessors.

-----------------------

coccygodynian--from _coccygodynia_, a pain in the region of the tailbone (coccyx). Stole the word barefaced from _Drums of Autumn_, by Diana Gabaldon. But please don't ask me to say it!


	22. Fat Tuesday

To the casual observer, Seeley Booth looked like he was relaxed, sitting on one of the couches in the lab's lounge. But he was thinking hard. And for once, it wasn't about a case, his son, or his partner.

This time it was personal. He'd say spiritual, except that sounded…weird. Religious, maybe. That sounded a little better.

What should he give up for Lent?

He ran through a list of things that gave him pleasure, made him happy, that normally he would say he couldn't live without. He remembered old Father Malone saying it only counted if it was a hardship--a true sacrifice. No giving up broccoli or eggplant or math tests. Or paperwork.

_Let's see. Parker? No, nothing with Parker. Not fair to him, plus Rebecca would rip me a new one. Nobody said it should be that painful._

_Coffee? Are you kidding? I'd never get anything done, walking around in a constant haze._

_Hockey? Hmmm… But it's a great stress and anger reliever. Wouldn't be good for me to stat beating on suspects instead. Plus, I am committed to playing with the team._

_Pie? Uhhh…_

_Thai? How would I explain that to Bones?_

_Bones?_ He jerked at that, almost falling off the couch. _No! I couldn't…can't!_ Panic swept over him, almost drowning him. Go without seeing her everyday, pulling her out of her office when she was there too long, sharing a table at the diner with her, bringing her coffee, catching her scent as he helped her on with her coat, even the arguments and lively discussions they had in the car? Live from Ash Wednesday to Easter without the daily challenges she provided? Deal with her on a purely professional basis for 40 interminable days?

_No. Way. In. Hell_. He flicked an uncertain look upwards, feeling that might have been a little sacrilegious in this context.

He couldn't do it, though. She probably wouldn't understand, and if she didn't, it would turn from a temporary sacrifice into a permanent deprivation. That would be the biggest sacrifice of all, and he couldn't do it. He shuddered.

_Pie it is._

* * *

For those not in the know, it is traditional for Catholics such as myself and Booth to sacrifice or give up something we like during Lent, something difficult and/or enjoyable such as candy, beer, TV, what-have-you. I know someone who gives up reading fiction (shudder). Hence Mardi Gras--the big party before the Lenten sacrifices, which do include the whole no meat on Fridays thing.

Good Catholic boy that Booth is, I imagine he would give this serious thought. At least he likes sushi.


	23. At a Fateful Crossroads

No author's note, save to mention that I still don't own any of these people!

* * *

Sweets stared at the piece of paper. It had arrived in a sealed envelope, marked TOP SECRET and Eyes Only, held by the Director himself. He hadn't wanted to look at it, didn't want to go back to work any more than the Jeffersonian crew did, after Agent Booth was shot and… and died. He was particularly worried about Dr. Brennan; she had completely withdrawn from them, even to the point of shaking off Angela's arm before stalking out of the hospital without a single sound having passed her lips ever since the doctor had made his somber announcement. She was gone by the time he got outside and he hoped it was only because she had been extremely fortunate in a cab.

But without Agent Booth, he wasn't sure he could arrange to see her. He was FBI, and not contracted anywhere else. He grimaced at the turn his thoughts were taking. _Stop suppressing, Lance_.

But the real shocker had come in that envelope. It was a short and simple list, the handwriting hauntingly familiar, if a little shakier than usual. _Dr. Temperance Brennan. Parker Booth. Rebecca Stinson._

"Dr. Sweets," the Director said firmly, making him wonder if he had missed something. "The people on that list--_and no one else_--are to be informed that Agent Booth is still alive and working an undercover case. The success of which depends on the world at large believing that he is dead. Tell them immediately, and give them the firmest cautions about letting things slip."

"Yes sir," Sweets said, eyes still locked on Booth's handwriting. When the other man was gone, he sat heavily in his chair. Despite what the Director said, he took some time to absorb it himself. He needed to.

_Agent Booth is alive._

He dug about in the top drawer for the ibuprofen he kept there and took one.

_Dr. Brennan is listed even above his son._

He looked up the address for Booth's son and his mother.

_He didn't list any other family._

He knew where to find Dr. Brennan; if by some weird twist, she wasn't at the Jeffersonian, her address was listed in the FBI database as well.

_I hope she didn't take off and leave the country. Her ties to Agent Booth are intense and she is fully capable of running in the first shock._

He carefully put the paper in his pocket, locked his desk, then his office. "I'll be back later," he told his secretary, who nodded sympathetically. All of his other appointments were postponed or cancelled already, so he didn't have to worry about that at least. He didn't want to give his patients anything less than his best, and he was definitely sub-par today.

He drove to the Jeffersonian, only to find the offices surrounding the platform dark despite it being during regular working hours. He backtracked to the guard at the entrance. "Where are--?" he asked, tipping his head towards the empty offices.

"Dr. Saroyan left a message for the Board that none of them were coming in. And that I should not let Dr. Brennan in at all, no matter what, today. But I haven't seen her, either, which is peculiar." The man's face settled into even more mournful lines. "Terrible thing, isn't it? Agent Booth getting shot like that? Don't know what the lab'll be like without him."

"It is," Sweets agreed, almost absently. "I thought I would come by and see how everyone was holding up," he added. "Do you think tomorrow will be all right?"

"Probably. Dr. Saroyan didn't say anything beyond today."

"Thanks." He turned and left, only then noticing the gaps in the parking garage. _Some agent you would make_. He sat back in the driver's seat, thinking. _Best to go see Parker and his mother now, since I have their address already, then come back and get Dr. Brennan's._

That visit went surprisingly well. He had introduced himself to mother and son, showing his own FBI badge and then displaying Booth's list. It was a little startling to see the Agent's eyes so perfectly duplicated in a six-year-old's face, right down to that irritating skepticism. But in the end, Parker had been ecstatic that his Daddy was all right, just on a long "business trip." Rebecca had looked over the list with reddened eyes and raised an eyebrow at seeing Dr. Brennan's name listed first. Sweets was rather pleased with the spur-of-the-moment explanation he had concocted, relying on the fact that Dr. Brennan had been at the shooting, then at the hospital, and seen it all. In fact, she had smiled faintly as she agreed with him that that probably was why.

Back in his own office, he fired up his computer again and looked up Dr. Brennan's address. _415 Elmsworth. Nice part of town._

As he turned everything off, a thought came to him. A brilliant, awful idea. _What if she didn't know that Agent Booth was alive?_

Stunned at the thought, he sank back in the chair. _She's so proud of her compartmentalizing, and both of them keep going on about just being partners. I get so sick of that line sometimes. A blind bat could see through it_.

He toyed with the paper he had written her address on. _It's a matter of national security, and I've heard him complain that she can't act and doesn't lie well. Hell, I've seen that myself. If she suddenly acts--relieved--it might be noticed. After all, it's pretty well known that they work together. Somebody could be watching her for just this sort of thing._

_No argument that the son had to be told, and his mother, since he's a minor_. He closed his eyes, fighting the temptation--and lost.

_This is a primo chance to truly evaluate her emotional connection to Agent Booth, and his response to her reactions should tell me quite a bit about how he feels. They owe me some observations for my study, and this should give me at least two chapters' worth, if not more. And I won't have to deal with all of their back-and-forth, the teasing, the not-so-subtle mocking. They're far too good at hiding behind it_, he thought with annoyance._ And since he really is alive, there should be no real harm done._

He nodded decisively and tossed the paper in the trash with the same gesture one might make in throwing dice.


	24. Intern in the Incinerator

I just want to take a moment to thank everyone who reads. Love the reviews, people, truly I do, even if I have no response at the time. And I still get a warm tingle when a new alert pops up. Reviews are nicer, but any compliment is a good one!

* * *

She wasn't happy with my interpretation of events, but accepted it; it's…what we do. She's forced a few realizations on me from time to time, though she's usually more subtle about it. I still can't tell if that's just her way or if she has that high an opinion of my intelligence. Not that it really matters, I suppose.

"Are you going to betray me?" she asked softly. Her eyes, still clear and unclouded by the Jack we were drinking, looked at me--no, _in _me, as though into my soul. Something there jumped at the thought that she considers me one of her own and I wonder if she can sense that. I may know her, what with _daffodil, daisy, Jupiter_ and the rest, but she still manages to keep her innermost thoughts private.

"No," I answered in all honesty. I can't imagine doing that; I can't think of any way it could happen. I felt like crossing myself at the thought of it.

"Nonetheless, I shall be vigilant," she said and drained the cup.

"'Nonetheless'?" I couldn't help laughing. Only person I know whose language gets prissier while they're getting drunk. She blinked, then started to laugh, too.

"I'm not gonna have a headache tomorrow, am I?" she asked somewhat plaintively. Okay, maybe mine was, too. Been hangin' around squints too long.

"Well, we're gonna find out," I told her, pouring another tot. "Hodgins and Zack, they do their experiments. We do ours. To Gorgonzola." Definitely hanging around too many squints for too long, if I'm thinking in terms of experiments.

"Gormogon," she corrected me as always.

I just grinned at her as we slugged down the shots. She's managed to keep up surprisingly well. Or was until she put the cup down wrong and it fell off the table.

"You missed." And that was the end of sobriety for the night. Thank God. Man wasn't meant to be conscience and guru for the rest of the world. Not all the time. Not even when the rest of the world is his partner.


	25. I’m in the wrong story…!

As is the case with so many of our fellow writers, real life caught up and delivered a handful of blows--mostly computer related. Feel my pain--no internet OR word processing for a week! (clutches at heart melodramatically)

Anyway (she says, firmly escorting the drama queen out the door), the lyrics and title quoted here are from two songs from one of my favorite musicals, _Into the Woods _(Sondheim). The songs are "Any Moment" and "Moments in the Woods." As I watched the episode, with all its emphasis on _moments_, I just kept hearing these lyrics.

BTW, I recommend the musical highly if you like Bernadette Peters, Stephen Sondheim, or fairy tales.

* * *

____

Foolishness can happen in the woods.  
Once again, please--  
Let your hesitations be hushed.  
Any moment, big or small,  
Is a moment, after all.  
Seize the moment, skies may fall  
Any moment.

He knew it probably wasn't the wisest decision he had ever made. Not as catastrophic as fooling with evidence, but certainly not good on a personal level. Under his scientific shell, he knew he needed human contact. And he had missed her so. Not just the sex, though that had always been good. But the touch of a hand, a soft voice near his ear. The willing give and take between friends and lovers.

Which is why when Angela announced that she and Roxie had broken up, then given him that _look_, he had gone along willingly. _Carpe diem _and all that.

_Days are made of moments,  
All are worth exploring.  
Many kinds of moments--  
None is worth ignoring.  
All we have are moments,  
Memories for storing.  
One would be so boring…_

Under the heat of the moment, he knew this wasn't--shouldn't be--a prologue back into the way they had been. It wasn't right; he couldn't ignore the past six months, two weeks, and three days (not that he was counting!). They had happened, just as surely this moment was happening.

A stray thought occurred to him as they lay back on the old Cleopatra bed, sated. He seems to have gotten past the unreasoning anger and hatred that had held him in such a tight grip a few months ago. He might be losing control of everything else around him, but at least he doesn't hate everyone anymore.

____

Right and wrong don't matter in the woods,  
Only feelings.  
Let us meet the moment unblushed.  
Life is often so unpleasant--

Best to take the moment present  
As a present for the moment.

"So this, right now, this isn't together?"

"It was a moment, a great moment. But all great moments pass."

________

This was just a moment in the woods.  
Our moment,  
Shimmering and lovely and sad.  
Leave the moment, just be glad  
For the moment that we had.  
Every moment is of moment  
When you're in the woods...

As she pulled her dress on and dashed back to work, he saw her earring, half-hidden in the sheets. He picked it up and opened his mouth, intending to call her back.

But she was already gone. On to her next moment--work, or lunch, or art, or who knew anymore.

He weighed it in his palm thoughtfully. Yes, this moment had passed. But there was no harm in keeping a souvenir of happier times, was there? Of course, if she asked him for the earring back, he would give it to her. But he hoped she wouldn't think to ask him.

_Just a moment,  
__One peculiar passing moment..._

_Oh, if life were made of moments,  
__Even now and then a bad one!  
__But if life were only moments,  
__Then you'd never know you had one._

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

_And to get what you wish,  
__Only just for a moment--  
__These are dangerous woods..._

Angela slowly sifted through photos. Each one reminded her of some precious, passing moment. Kirk. Jack. Grayson. Roxie. Each…liaison…relationship…connection…had elements of impetuosity--the living in the moment Roxie had accused her of. And they had all wanted part of her future.

"The future," she said softly as she put them away. Even when engaged to Jack, she had never thought very far ahead. She had rushed their wedding ceremony, not wanting to wait even a month, much less until spring. Having children was a forward-looking thought, but she hadn't actually given it serious consideration: how many, how to care for them, the changes pregnancy, childbirth, and motherhood inevitably brought. She had looked at an adorable child and simply decided on the spot she wanted some of her own.

A wistful smile touched her lips. How had she, the original good-time girl, the poster child for living in the moment, gotten involved with such dreamers and planners? _They say opposites attract. Guess so_.

_Let the moment go  
__Don't forget it for a moment, though…_

_Now I understand--  
__And it's time to leave the woods._


	26. Not your typical fairy tale

Title from 100 Themes. Still on the fairy tales; and if I get no reviews on this one as well, then I shall simply have to conclude y'all don't like them. But I said I wouldn't hold chapters and stories hostage, and I mean it still.

* * *

Some stories run exactly the way you'd expect. _Boy meets girl, they fall in love, and live happily ever after_. Sometimes they fight before they love or fight after they love, or perhaps are separated and pine for each other or fight to be reunited, but the "happily ever after" part is a constant.

Or perhaps the plucky (smart, clever, good) girl leaves home or defeats a villain with her wits alone. But much more often, it's the adventurous younger son who goes out into the world. The maiden simply needs rescuing: rings of fire, glass mountains, towers, unending sleep, even simple drudgery. Her reward for being passive or good or otherwise what society deems as deserving is always marriage to whatever man who can bull his way through the obstacles and charm the supernatural guardians to claim his prize.

They're all cautionary, of course. _Don't talk to strangers. Listen to your parents/grandparents/elders. Be courteous to all. Danger may hide behind beautiful masks_. And so forth.

My story doesn't quite fit those parameters. The word _parameters_ doesn't fit the genre. That should tell you something.

_Once upon a time, not too far away or too long ago, there lived a family. Mother, father, son, and daughter. They were a happy family, content in their places and in their gifts. The father was a scholar and teacher, the mother kept local guildsmen from losing their money, the son had a gift with machines, and the daughter studied the sciences._

True enough, on the surface.

_When the daughter was 10, they moved into a quiet neighborhood in a large city. The daughter, though shy among her peers, managed to find friends and mentors, and thrived in her quiet, reserved way._

Also true. I had a few friends, boys as well as girls, who included me in their games and teachers who were patient with my reticence. And Russ was always there to help me, protect me. Once he was about 13, he didn't play with me like he used to—something about being too old to play with little girls—but he never let me down. I _knew _he was there; it was…an article of my faith. I'd catch a whispered "Marco" in the hall at school and _knew_ he could hear my equally faint "Polo" back. Even if I didn't say anything else all day.

_Then one day some five years later, just before the biggest and most important holiday of the year, the son and daughter came home from school to find an empty house. There was no word left behind, no scrap of paper to explain. The mother and father's coats were missing. The children were not unduly distressed, since it was the holiday season and there were presents to purchase. But when bedtime approached, and then midnight, with no sign, they looked in their parents' bedroom, a place previously off-limits to them._

_The closets were half empty; the dresser drawers were no longer full. And the baggage kept in the attic was also gone._

Mom and Dad had dropped me off at school, waved good-bye cheerfully. There was no hint, not even a bare suggestion anything was wrong. I know now why they did it, and the logical part of me understands why they did it the way they did. I've heard my father's explanation, and my mother thoughtfully recorded hers and an apology before she died.

But part of me (and I know this is psychology and thus suspect) will never accept it. That part of me relives that terror every year, expects nothing to stay the same or safe, is slow to accept people or rely on them. That's why I run so easily. I know it. I don't think Angela or Dr. Sweets or even Booth knows that I know that about myself.

_The holiday came and the children still knew nothing of what happened to their parents. The son (brother) tried to cheer up his sister, still protecting her, shielding her. He set out the presents he had found while looking for their parents' things under the tree, made the traditional breakfast, played the expected music. But she would only accept it from her parents and was determined to wait. For she was more of a dreamer than most people realize. Realized. And when it was clear that they were still alone, she broke down and cried. She rejected her brother's attempts to help her and unknowingly rejected him as well._

I truly regret that. In my defense (and I will not belabor the point), I can only say I was not emotionally developed enough to avoid giving hurt, benignly self-centered. I can hear Booth laugh at me—I'm probably still not as developed as I should be. I didn't mean to hurt Russ. My big brother. But I was 15, emotionally underdeveloped, and I wanted my mother. And somehow, my young mind twisted it around to include him in the blame.

_Scorned and then ignored, the brother went to the elders of the city and asked what he should do. He was only 19, halfway through an apprenticeship in mechanics, with little income of his own and a sister just 15. There was, as it turned out, money left to maintain them, but he did not know it then, and he worried about keeping the wolf from the door._

_The elders told him that the responsibility was too much for him; already feeling the demands, he reluctantly agreed and made arrangements for others to care for his sister. By the turning of the year, he was gone as well. She watched with disbelieving eyes as he walked away from her._

For years, that was the last image I had of Russ—getting into his car and driving away. I can still see the little details: it was a remarkably warm December for Chicago, and there was no snow on the ground. The sun was bright but his eyes were dark. Now I know it was his own regret and sorrow that he couldn't care for me, but then all I could see was rejection.

And once he had driven away, the social worker pulled me back into the house and stood over me as I tried to decide what to pack and what to discard through the tears I couldn't control.

I have no idea anymore how I held on to the handful of possessions I brought from my parents' house; I am simply grateful that I did.

_The daughter (sister, girl, heroine) spends the next three years being pushed and pulled about by strangers, some well-meaning but inadequate, some indifferent, some downright bad, and a small number of the genuinely nice. In these sorts of tales, it would be her ordeal, the circumstances which make her worthy of the highest honors and rewards, showered upon her from the outside._

_In real life, she is the one who overcomes the obstacles, makes her way out of the maze. She earns her rewards through hard work and dedication. She studies hard and achieves the highest honors at school, then moves on to University and applies herself there even harder. Over her desk in the small room the University gave her is a motto, gorgeously calligraphed by an art student she knows: _ad astra per aspera_. To the stars through hardships._

Only the last of my foster parents supported my desire to attend college; even the case worker was apathetic. They helped me with the forms, encouraged me to apply to the best schools, and somehow got my case worker to write a good reference.

The rest of them--well, perhaps that's better left unsaid. I saw some of the worst of human behavior in those three years; I have a scar or two to prove it, as well as a thick file. I have a copy of that. I keep it with my shoes, the ones I wrote their names on. I don't look at them anymore, I'm not a masochist. Perhaps I might show the file and shoes to Booth; my dad would be interested, too, but I fear his reactions more. His conscience is more…flexible…than Booth's for the most part.

_She obtains the preliminary degree, that of Bachelor of Science in a remarkably short time; a Master's quickly follows. Her focus is phenomenal, her drive unparalleled. There are no vacations or summer breaks for her, just classes, as many as the University will permit. And one good, true friend is found, a friend who brings her pieces of the outside world._

I worked hard at school. Money was, if not no object, at least not an issue. To my surprise, a lawyer and my case worker visited me on my 18th birthday and gave me a thin folder. Inside were all the documents left by my parents. The lease on the house (expired, of course). Wills. And bank books for accounts in my name and Russ's, with the date of transfer the day they disappeared. Since Russ was still missing, the courts had decided they were all mine. Between that and the scholarships and grants I received, my education was paid for, up to my first doctorate, so long as I was careful.

Which I was. Financially and academically, anyway.

And I met Angela. My first real friend since I was 15, and my complete opposite. She was an artist from the beginning, brilliant in the humanities, with a budding interest in computers. And a party girl. Always that. She would take me out clubbing when she felt I was gathering dust, make sure I saw sunlight at least once a week. Odd that we are such good friends, and for so long, but at this point I have learned not to question such fortuitous circumstances.

_Our heroine, now adult, and all alone in the world, turns to a rarified discipline--the study of bones. She wants to know everything about them. Some of the appeal is that mysteries may be solved in this study. Skeletons talk this way, you see, not literally of course; there is no magic wand to animate a skull. Only close examination and study make them open books. And somewhere deep inside of her, she is aware that her parents may be a pile of bones somewhere. The more people who can read bones like she wants to, the more likely she is to find out what happened to them._

_But every student in this course must have a mentor. She is fortunate to catch the attention of one of the better ones. He personally guides her on her path, and she blossoms under his attention. Which allows him to see she is quite a lovely young lady. And so he does what is not strictly forbidden, but certainly disapproved of--he takes her to his bed. She is as apt a pupil there as in the classroom._

Michael. I was a fool. Angela told me I was once I told her who I was sleeping with (she's always had an obsession with my love life). But he was persuasive and kind and it never seemed to fall over into the classroom or our digs. I would have ended it if it had.

_Somewhere in the last year before she earned the title of Doctor, though, she began to suspect her mentor was hiding something. Unfortunately, for all that she excelled in academics, she still had not learned to read the human heart in all its twisty ways, so she could not say for certain what was wrong. Only later did she learn of his jealousy as her skills surpassed his._

I was at the Jeffersonian by 1998; the same year, as Zack pointed out, that my mother's bones arrived there as Jane Doe 129-0998. I had a feeling Dr. Stires was glad to see me leave Northwestern even then, but we parted on friendly terms.

And the Jeffersonian became my true home, as Booth phrased it once. The place where my mind was most at ease. Dr. Goodman hired me; Hodgins was already an employee, working on his own third doctorate. I missed Angela, however, and when there was talk of needing a facial reconstructionist or forensic artist, I thought of her. She was hired, mostly upon my recommendation, and together we created her actual position out of nothing.

_She fit into the great academy and museum almost seamlessly. Time was allotted for her own studies and journeys, and she made important discoveries and designed new ways of doing things that only improved the work she and her peers did. The rulers of the land came to value and depend upon her expertise, sometimes asking her to travel far away from her own land._

_Some of these trips were dangerous; so dangerous she could not tell anyone else about them. Twice, death nearly took her. But she believed that the work itself was too important to neglect. The dead she had come to help were too important to ignore. And so she persevered._

_She remained quiet, however, and none save her friend from the University knew her. Even those she worked with knew little of her. They were pleasant companions, especially the young student she mentored with joy (though she stayed within the proper bounds of such a relationship)._

_In the meantime, she locked away the memory of her family, refusing to talk of them. It would be many more years before she learned of their fate. Except for her brother. Once she was on her own, he would send birthday greetings every year. She listened to them, and set her heart like stone, for she still blamed him that she was alone._

_And her life remained thus for seven years…_

Seven years I worked at the Jeffersonian before I met Booth. Seven's an important number in folklore and fairy tales. It's always the seventh son or seventh daughter who is the most fortunate. A man in the Bible labored for seven years for the right to wed his employer's daughter. There are some who say the body operates on a seven year cycle. I'm not saying there's anything significant about it in my case--it's just an interesting coincidence.

Yes, Russ left me messages every year on my birthday once I was out of foster care. Sometimes I was out of the country, as I tend to be on certain anniversaries. I'd come home and find his message; or if I was at home, I would simply listen as he spoke. It was always the same: a plea for me to answer, "Happy Birthday, Tempe," a brief hesitation followed by his contact information. That would change from time to time, and a few years before I started working with Booth, he left no such details. I realize now he must have been in jail at the time.

Hodgins and Angela and I made a small unit, friends, colleagues, companions, and we worked well together. That was my sole criteria for many years. We learned each other's quirks and habits, made allowances for them, knew what to expect on a professional level. Then I hired Zack. In retrospect, he became everyone's little brother. Hodgins in particular took to him, even though he was the butt of jokes or the scapegoat when one of their experiments went awry. I wish I had paid better attention to him.

Now comes the tricky part…

_One morning, the chief of the scholars came to her with a man from outside the academic complex. He was of a knightly force dedicated to eradicating and confining lawbreakers within the country. The academy had agreed that their best scholars would work with the knights in order to identify victims of crimes either so old there was naught but bone left or where circumstances had led to such intense damage that no name was known. And this knight was tasked to work with them, bring them these bodies, and once a name could be attached and the weapon used identified, he and his fellows could apprehend the villain._

_But he was hard to work with. He distrusted the way of the scholars, doubted their abilities. In turn, they began to despise him for his dismissal of their work, his open scorn and mockery. And when she asked to see a skeleton where it was found, he was quite rude in rejecting her request._

_Angered beyond words, she went on one of her trips, leaving behind a message for the knight that she would no longer work with him. But when she came back, he had a mystery he truly needed her help on. And so he tried to humble himself, which was hard, for he was a proud man. As proud of his own skills as she was of hers. He gave way to her demands, and with her help, discovered who had killed a pregnant young woman. He was also forced to realize there was no way he could have done so on his own, and so his face became a familiar sight in the academy's halls. Along with the sound of their debates._

I still am uncertain how we went from that "armed" standoff to friends. But we did. And somehow, somehow I have grown to trust Booth more than anyone else since I was 15. He's stood beside me as I worked through the issues of my past as they have risen; I've told him more than I've ever told anyone else. He's taught me about the rest of the world--the emotions and motivations of "normal" people. He's done a lot more for me than we've ever discussed out loud.

I wonder sometimes if I have been as beneficial for him. It's hard to tell. He's a private man, as private as I am, and lacking his skills in benevolent prying, I cannot get him to talk as freely as he can get me to do. He tells me some things, and I try to show I care about him, that we shall remain friends no matter what he has done in the past. I wish I could do more--that I could get inside his head the way he gets in mine! I think--believe--_feel_--his youth and early adulthood parallels mine in some way. If he doesn't scorn me for my questionable family and shadowed youth, how could I disdain his?

And recently, I have thought that I want to step across that line he drew, ostensibly to protect us…no, me. But I don't know how to do it, cannot even be sure of his feelings, though there seems to be something in his gaze--and he's always looking at me!

_The knight has stood beside the scholars in matters dark and deep. He has put his reputation upon the line for them, especially _her_. He helped her find her family; a mixed blessing to be sure, since dangerous secrets came to light with them. But she has laid her mother to rest in proper fashion, embraced her father and brother once more--thanks in great part to him. He has begun to teach her the ways of the human heart and soul and she has taught him there is more than one way to untie a knot or penetrate a secret._

_Trust has grown between them._

Is there a moral to my story? I doubt it. There is nothing so neat and tidy here as the moral to a fable; no message carved in stone. I hope I conveyed the importance of dedication needed in order to succeed. There is also a caution against closing yourself off from others. That sometimes the truth is dangerous and unpleasant, but always worth seeking out. Let an objective observer determine if there are others. I'm too close.

_The tale is unfinished. The knight and the scholar are friends, partners, shieldbrothers. Bound together by ties incomprehensible to outsiders. They are the center of the union between the academy and the knights. Some look at them and see more than is there. Others push--hard--to make things happen. But one day…ah, one day, the knight will look at his friend the scholar and they will both see the other as more than a friend. Perhaps they will kiss of their own free will, without witnesses or blackmail. Perhaps they will speak of love and truth, trust and feelings, and their relationship turn on another axis._

_As the poet says, 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished…_

* * *

By the way, I don't believe Dec. 1991 was that warm and snow-free around here. Just a little artistic license on the part of the show.


	27. It is she who saves the people

_It is she who saves the people as they go out to war and come back. _

Inspired by Don't Judge a Goddess by her Cover (Catherine Chen), ch 11, in the Greek Mythology section over in Books (http://www. fanfiction .net/s/4484458/11/Dont_Judge_a_Goddess_by_her_Cover).

All quotes are attributed to Homer: the Iliad, the Odyssey, or the Hymns. (I enjoy digging through quotes for titles!)

* * *

"Hail, grey-eyed Athena!" Booth proclaimed, entering Brennan's office. She looked up at him blinking in surprise; once more he had managed to surprise her. Sometimes she really did think he was from another planet. What was it about him that could do that to her? Almost no one else could throw her off her sport like he did.

"What?" she settled for saying.

"_Athene, rich in counsel_," he added, dropping onto her couch. "Parker's reading some Greek mythology in school and we stumbled across the phrase 'grey-eyed Athena' while doing his homework. It seemed apt for you, Bones. You may say blue eyes on your driver's license, but sometimes they're grey. And you're pretty damn smart, being a genius and all. Maybe not quite the same thing as wisdom, but still…"

"She was also the goddess of war, Booth," Brennan pointed out, amused. And touched and amazed, that he would notice such a small detail as how her eyes changed color.

"Righteous, justified war," he corrected her. "I'd say that fits you, too. I mean, you're always after me for a gun, and went ahead and bought your own when I didn't get you one, three black belts, hunting licenses; you can be harsher on our suspects than I am sometimes." He stretched out, mischievously listing off her more violent tendencies. "Since it's all for our victims, I would call that justified. Anyway, after I helped Parker with his homework, I did a little research of my own and found the other quote. From the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_. Homer, you know." He smirked at her and she laughed.

"I was in Athens once," she said. "The Acropolis is astounding, and even though it's a ruin, the Parthenon is worth the trip." She leaned back in her own chair. "You could bring Parker by one day and I could show him the pictures. If he's interested."

"If he's not, I am. Here," he slid the folder he had been carrying across the table. "Your John Hancock is required, Bones. Your signature," he hastily clarified and she shot him a chill little glance.

"I actually do know what that means, Booth." She retrieved the folder and looked through the pages, nodding occasionally, before grabbing a pen and signing in all the places she needed to. "Was there anything else?"

"Nothing urgent. Lunch, maybe. Or dinner?"

Her smile returned. "Predictable much? Dinner will be fine. Don't come until six. At the earliest," she added for good measure.

"Six? That's early for you!" He stood and scooped up the folder, saluting her with it before leaving. "But I'll be here and you had better be turning off that computer, Bones!" As he left, one last quote trailed through his mind: _she vied in beauty with golden Aphrodite and in handiwork were the peer of flashing-eyed Athene_.

* * *

Happy Easter, all who celebrate it this weekend!


	28. No More Words

Title and assorted lyrics from the name of an 80s song by Berlin. Completely ignoring all spoilers for the rest of the season!

------------------------------------------------------------------

"So, Angela said you had a date last night. How'd it go?"

"Angela needs to stop telling you things," Brennan muttered, taking a rather large mouthful of salad. Booth waited patiently.

"Two things," she finally said. "One, I don't want to talk about it. And two, it's none of your business."

"Oh, come on, Bones--"

She leveled a deadly glare at him and he shut his mouth.

_You're talking, it all sounds fair  
You promise your love how much you care  
I'm still listening and still unsure  
Your actions are lacking, nothing is clear_

When they were nearly back at the Jeffersonian, he tried again. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say your date didn't go well. I don't know what's wrong with some of these guys."

"How should I know?" she asked tightly. "And it didn't go that poorly--it just wasn't quite…satisfactory. He seemed to lack something that I cannot properly define."

"You deserve better, Bones," he said as they walked back into the lab. "You're a wonderful person, and if these morons can't see beneath--"

"No. Not one more word," she suddenly hissed, turning to face him.

_No more words  
You're telling me you love me while you're looking away  
No more words  
No more words, and no more promises of love_

"I don't want to hear it, Booth. It's all empty promises and meaningless words. Eventually. Someday. Someone for everyone. No. It's not going to happen and I'm tired of hearing otherwise."

_Remember when the words were new  
They carried a meaning, a feeling so true_

She gave him a little push and stalked off to her office, slamming the door shut in his face. A tiny click told him she had locked it--the first time she had ever done so since they started to work together.

_Don't fool yourself  
Your empty passion won't satisfy me  
I know, so don't pretend that you want me  
You don't want me, no!_

"What happened between you and Booth?" Angela asked near the end of the day. "His tail was well and truly between his legs when he left."

"I don't know what you mean," Brennan said, not looking up. "Humans are not equipped with a tail. The coccyx is a remnant of a vestigial tail found in all tailless primates, but it is not visible through the skin, so how could he--"

"It's a metaphor, sweetie. He was sad. Beaten. Guilty. It's a--comparison to a dog's body language," she replied, searching for words.

"Oh. I don't know." She could feel Angela's eyes on her.

"Did you two fight?"

"No." She realized the terse answer denied itself. "No, it wasn't a fight. I don't know what it was, but it wasn't a fight. He was just being persistent about my date last night and wasn't accepting that I didn't want to talk about it."

"Well, you know why. Everyone knows how he feels about you and you about him."

Brennan finally looked at her friend. "Not everyone," she murmured, turning off her computer. "I'm done. The irresistible force has met the unmovable object and I," she hesitated, bit her lip. "I lost."

_Your eyes show nothing, no lover's flame  
Don't promise we can work it out  
You can leave right now if you're feeling doubt_

_No more words  
You're telling me you love me while you're looking away  
No more words  
No more words, and no more promises of love_

------------------------------------

There is potential for this to have at least one more chapter; please let me know if you're interested!


	29. The Critic in the Cabernet

I know there are a large number of you waiting on the next chapter of No More Words, and frankly I had planned 2 other stories that tied into that to be next here as well, but the end of CitC was not something I could ignore.

So, having stated that, on with the story.

* * *

Her grip was tight; she was more scared than she would admit, he knew that. Knew _her_.

And he was more relieved than he could--or possibly would ever--explain that she was there. He had gotten though being shot by holding her hand, surely now would be no different.

They wheeled him into the brightly lit operating room, the medics literally talking over his head except for the anesthesiologist. She and Bones talked to him in quiet voices, Bones translating the medical-speak and offering encouragement around the anesthesiologist's explanations.

Really, he thought as the woman started the IV, it was only that it was brain surgery that made it so scary. Anything else would be a piece of cake; he had been though worse, hadn't he? He tried to tell her so, but the anesthesia caught up with him even as he opened his mouth.

*************************************

I watched as Booth fell asleep just as he started to say something. The anesthesiologist nodded at me in what I think was meant to be a reassuring manner. "That's how it supposed to be. He probably won't even remember becoming unconscious."

I bit my lip, but nodded back at her in comprehension.

The surgeon and nurses worked around me as I sat there, clinging to Booth's hand. There was no way they could make me let go! As the operation progressed, I listened to them, alert for anything wrong or out of the ordinary, but thankfully everything seemed to be going well.

God, if there was one, had a lot to answer to in my pages. How anyone could put so good a man as Seeley Booth through this kind of hell two years running beyond me, especially not an entity supposed to be so loving, one that Booth had such faith in. "Good and faithful servant," indeed, to be treated this way! My thoughts slid away from hypothetical deities to how he looked in that bed while they were prepping him. I had never seen him so vulnerable before, and it unnerved me almost more than the surgery did. No, I should be honest. It _scared_ me. Booth had become my own pillar of strength and continuity and the thought of him crumbling was not to be borne any more than the thought of losing him.

My hand tightened briefly on his, but relaxed immediately--I didn't want to cause any problems. I needed my Booth to come out of this whole and back to normal. Whatever normal might be. Psychology aside, normal is a relative term.

MY Booth. Yes, I said that. He was mine and I was willing to be his. Sweets had gotten it exactly right when he said I wanted a piece of Booth for my own. Well, I might not get _that_ piece, not the one I was thinking about, but damned if I wasn't going to talk to him when he was out of the hospital. Between his getting shot last year and this tumor now, we no longer have the leisure to wait and dance about each other. _We will talk_, I promised him silently, and maybe, just maybe, the piece I was willing to settle for might turn into something a whole lot bigger.


	30. Max

It's been a while since I posted anything. Don't worry--I am working on Oblique (those of you who are waiting on that) and some others. Including a couple of the apparently obligatory finale-connected tales.

Every so often, I feel the urge to inform the world of the sad truth that I do not own these characters.

* * *

Art McGregor--better known to some as Max Keenan--yawned as he opened his Sunday paper. Since he had arrived in Oregon, he had allowed himself to acquire a bit of routine; some small habits. Nothing too hard to break. He had always enjoyed the Sunday paper, read with fresh coffee and pastry at his elbow. Sports, comics, business, world, national sections. He usually skimmed past the book reviews, though--they never seemed to review anything he was interested in. But then a very familiar name caught his eye.

_**Bred in the Bone**__--Dr. Temperance Brennan._

"Tempe?" he said out loud in shock.

"_A new and most promising author in the genre of suspense and mystery is Dr. Temperance Brennan. A forensic anthropologist by trade, she has turned her professional eye to the realm of fiction. Her initial offering, _Bred in the Bone_, introduces us to a fascinating cast of characters, headed by Kathy Reichs, who, like her creator, is a forensic anthropologist in the fictional Smithsonian Institute. Kathy is ably assisted by an interesting cast of lab workers, and is sometimes paired with an FBI Agent as cocky and attractive as he is annoying…The characters overall are quite realistically drawn and remarkably individual, if slightly one dimensional--a tendency that will undoubtedly fade as Dr. Brennan grows more familiar with the world she has created. The murder and investigation is equally realistic and is described in enough detail that this is not for the squeamish…The villain's motivation is not explained as fully as some readers might prefer, but again, that is something that should fade with time and practice…"_

Max read it three times over, then grinned. "That's my girl."

He headed for the bookstore that very afternoon. His hands shook as he held a copy of her book and looked at her picture. His little girl--even in black and white, he could see Ruth's eyes and easy poise.

He wondered if she still liked snicker doodles or remembered how they would sing his favorite song together. Or even the science projects he had helped her with--not that she had gained any advantage from her old man being a science teacher. Was she married--no, that he would have heard about. Boyfriend, then.

In the past, he had always been able to push these thoughts away, stay focused on survival--his _and _theirs. But face to face with her picture, he found he couldn't.

His brilliant daughter. He thought about her as he carried the book to the register. He had followed her career through a _very _discreet clipping service. His pride knew no bounds when she graduated _summa cum laude_ at Northwestern, then gained her advanced degrees in what seemed like no time at all. Being hired at the foremost lab in the country, if not the world. He knew about some of her trips to identify bodies, too, though some of them were only mentioned in foreign papers. What would his neighbors here in Coos Bay think if they knew that he had headed down to El Salvador to wreak a little vengeance on the bastards who had so hurt her? Or if they knew about the man in that skuzzy bar outside Chicago? Poor fellow had cracked his head against a pool table during a vicious bar fight and died a few days later. Or the car the cops had found on a remote snowy road a week earlier, the driver dead from the impact? The official report had said DUI had caused the crash and he had died of his injuries and the cold. The snowfall later that night had been providential, really.

Russ's villains were harder to get to, he thought as he drove home. The boy just didn't seem to have drive like his sister, and Max couldn't break into prison to get him out. Couldn't show up in the chop shop and tell him to stop; that would have only gotten all of them killed. Short of revealing himself, there was no way for him to help Russ. That hurt. And, to be honest, Russ's lifestyle was the kind that didn't get written up very often--or when it did, it was too late.

Neither of them would recognize _him_, though. Not anymore. It was simply amazing, the underground network--clipping services, plastic surgeons, the works. And not too many people even knew it existed. A few conspiracy nuts who no one ever believed; a handful of law enforcement who suspected it; and the most close-lipped criminals and fugitives in the country. Darwinism in action, he thought. The strongest and most suited survive. The rest were eliminated or simply didn't make it.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

Between the network and his own contacts, he managed to stay current. And it was through his most reliable source some months after buying Tempe's book that he heard the FBI was expressing some interest in "Matt and Christine Brennan." _One agent is starting to ask questions. Nothing like an open or official case. But she felt he should know…_

Max looked into it. Special Agent Seeley Booth, DC MCU. Recently partnered with one Dr. Temperance Brennan of the Jeffersonian. A close rate that had rocketed over the last year. Commendations all around.

He was torn between pride and concern. Pride for his daughter's accomplishments and ability. Concern that they might be stirring up more trouble than they expected. Was this Agent Booth asking questions because Tempe wanted him to? Or was he going behind her back? Either way meant trouble.

And what about Russ? Where did he fit into all this?

His latest subtle request for information had brought him the information that their old car was being reexamined and that this Agent Booth had brought Russ to see Tempe over a mysterious case. Followed by news that made his blood boil. _That bastard McVicker was still alive and well under Witness Protection_. That needed to be rectified. No matter where they put him, Max was going to see to it that ol' Vinnie didn't contaminate the earth with his presence anymore. For Ruth. For Tempe, for Russ. Rabid dogs get put down before they cause more trouble. And Vince was as rabid as they came.

And then he found out what the case was.

Ruth.

Tempe had identified her own mother's bones. Her partner was investigating the circumstances of her death. That was how they stumbled over McVicker, why Russ had been brought in, the car looked at. He should have known.

He remembered burying her: new shoes, Russ's marble, that dolphin buckle she and Tempe loved so much. A quiet corner of a cemetery--it would be green in spring and summer, near a flowering hedge. And once he had finished that grim task, he had leaned on the "borrowed" shovel and cried and cursed. They had been such fools. The minute she had gotten pregnant with Russ, they should have quit. It might have been accepted for that reason and they could have lived quietly far, far away from the gang. They should have taken the kids with them this time; he shouldn't have let Ruth override him. So many mistakes. All he knew at that moment was that the phone in the Chicago house had been disconnected and he hadn't the faintest idea where his children were. That his wife lay in her grave, unmarked and unacknowledged. And the hell of it was that he hadn't dared get drunk even for one night, to numb the pain. He had to be gone before he was made.

His eyes swam in the here and now as he remembered. It still hurt; he could force it back into some niche in his mind for the most part and function on an everyday basis, but there were times--like now--where he simply couldn't.

Even as he mourned all over again, some detached part of his mind wondered how Ruth had been found.

When he came back to himself, he realized that they wouldn't leave it alone. Oh no, Tempe had always been a determined child, and her partner sounded like a good match for her in that regard. They would carry Russell along with them like a leaf in a current. He had to stop them.

With a hand that only shook a little, he dialed (best not to ask how he got her unlisted number), first initiating the privacy block. He got her machine--he wasn't sure if he should be happy about that or not. It would have been nice to hear her voice, but simpler just to leave a message.

"Temperance? You have to stop looking. Y-You have to stop looking for me right now. This is bigger and worse than you know. Please stop now."

He fingered the dolphin in his pocket once he hung up--the sole physical reminder of his Ruth that he had left. He was going to have to go to DC. That phone call wasn't going to be enough.

-------------------------------------------------------------

I got the idea for the dead men in Chicago from ch 37 of blc's _The Magpie's Nest_; the El Salvador part comes from S3 when Max tells Brennan that he's been in worse places than prison--El Salvador, a box…Disneyworld. Forget which epi that is. I've always wondered about that box.


	31. The End in the Beginning

I ended up with 2 stories from the finale--this is the 1st one and certainly closer to what what I think could (should?) happen…

I started this before HH started pontificating about the finale and dropping hints about S5. If you don't know what I'm talking about, that's fine; you aren't missing too much. If you do, you may note I didn't include some of the highly reasonable theories proposed on the ABY, though I certainly agree with some of them. (looking at you, Robert! Love yours in particular!)

* * *

"The surgery was a success," Brennan said, rushing the words in her relief. "But you had a negative reaction to the anesthesia. You've been in a coma for four days. It took you so long to wake up." She controlled her voice with difficulty, trying to hide the worry that had been mounting through those four very difficult days.

"…Felt so real," he croaked.

"It wasn't," she reassured him gently, hardly knowing what she was reassuring him about.

"Who are you?"

She froze. He looked at her dazedly, confusion plain on his face, and her heart, just barely open, locked up.

"You just wait," she managed to get out. "I'll--I'll get your doctor."

She backed out of the room, afraid to even look at him for very long. And as soon as she cleared the door, she bolted for the nurses' stand. "Agent Booth is awake, though he seems a bit…disoriented," she announced. The nurse on duty flicked a glance at the board. "I see, and he's calling, too. I'll notify Dr. Jursik. Thank you, Dr. Brennan."

"You're welcome," she half-whispered, and as soon as the nurse disappeared into his room, Brennan bolted again, pelting down the stairs, tears blinding her.

No one seemed to look at her twice when she hit the door at the bottom and practically fell out; well, it was a hospital, she decided briefly. They must see people who can't cope all the time. But the noise level of the main floor was too much after the near silence on his floor, and she desperately sought for a quiet place.

Somehow she found herself in the chapel; the irony didn't escape her. But it was quiet and she was alone, which was all she was asking for.

Why her? Why _him_? It was so unfair.

And she immediately chided herself for the thought; she knew better than to bemoan that. Life was inherently unfair, and she should keep that in mind. And decide what she was going to do about an amnesiac Booth.

_This is why I should never lead with my heart_, she thought, burying her face in her hands. _It only hurts_.

********************************************

Booth groaned as Brennan disappeared from the room. The nurse shook her head at him when she entered and caught him trying to push the sheets back. "Your friend has been here the entire time. She just needs a few moments to herself. Dr. Jursik will be here momentarily." She ran through the orientation process, nodding approvingly at his answers.

"You should be good to go soon," she told him, bringing some ice chips for his throat.

"Thanks," he muttered, scooping one up.

The doctor came in then, interrupting his train of thought. When the man left, Booth still wore bandages wrapped rakishly around his head, but thankfully with fewer things attached to him. The nurse fluttered around for a few more minutes, making sure he had what he needed--the table, the painkiller, decent light, water…

"Could you do me one more favor?" he asked her before she could leave. His charm smile was still intact at least, since she gave him a wide smile in return.

"Within reason, Mr. Booth."

"Hand me that laptop, please?"

She placed it on the table with a cautionary note. "Don't strain yourself, now."

"Yes, ma'am." He knew Bones would have been working on something; she couldn't sit idle for long. If he couldn't have her with him, then he would have something of hers to keep him company.

Yes, the undo button was highlighted on an otherwise empty word processing document. Curious, he clicked it and the screen was filled. He squinted a bit and the words swam into focus. He did have a brief pang of guilt, but assuaged it by noting it wasn't a Kathy & Andy story. Those were the ones she was rabid about protecting.

_People say you only live once. But people are as wrong about that as they are about everything. _

_In the darkest moments before dawn a woman returns to her bed. What life is she leading? Is it the same life the woman was living half an hour ago? a day ago? a year ago? Who is this man? Do they lead separate lives, or is it a single life shared? _

He wished his head didn't hurt so badly--he'd be able to appreciate it so much better if he wasn't in pain and muddled from painkillers. It was a long document, but much shorter than her books--there was a term for it, but he couldn't pull it to mind. Novella? Sounded right, anyway.

_You're not a cold fish. You're Iceland. Cool to the touch and all volcano underneath._

He couldn't help but be reminded all over again what a good writer she was as he skimmed it, though. The scene she set, turning everyone on their collective sides, the lab becoming a nightclub--it was both new and familiar, outlandish yet so believable. And how on earth did she know who the Crüe were?

_Should I be upset that everyone thinks that we're murderers or just happy that everyone's trying to help us get away with it?_

She might have been Bren and he Mr. B, but it was still them, and it was mostly his dream--she must have been reading out loud as she typed. His eyes blurred when he hit the pregnancy announcement and how overjoyed his character was. And then when she wrapped it up, he had to blink back tears. It was her, so her, and yet the most open he had ever seen her.

_You see two people and you think they belong together, but nothing happens. The thought of losing so much control over personal happiness is unbearable. You love someone, you open yourself up to suffering, and that's the sad truth. Maybe they'll break your heart, maybe you'll break their heart and never be able to look at yourself in the same way. Those are the risks. That's the burden. Like wings, they have weight, we feel that weight on our backs, but they are a burden that lifts us. Burdens that allow us to fly._

He hit the call button; Bones had been gone long enough. He had to see her. Maybe she could be paged?

********************************************

Brennan stayed in the chapel, huddled in on herself, mind blank by choice. She had given up trying to decide what to do for the moment. She knew nothing about amnesia, almost nothing about the physical workings of the brain, and she wasn't ready to learn just yet.

Someone else entered the chapel and she pressed herself further into the corner, hoping not to be noticed. The open door let in a burst of noise. "Paging Dr. …-nan, please…"

She watched the stranger, ignoring how the page almost sounded like they were calling her. No reason, really, for anyone to be calling her. Booth didn't know who she was and none of their friends were there. The other person sank onto a kneeler and crossed himself, just as she had seen Booth do, then linked his fingers together and leaned his head on them.

She wondered, as she always did, if calling on an invisible and highly illogical being was truly comforting. Booth seemed to think so, and so did this man. But she still couldn't make that connection. Not even for Booth's sake. She had an easier time accepting the non-chemical side of love.

After a while, the man left. She sighed, relieved to be alone again. She prowled about the small room, starting to feel trapped, but still unwilling to go back and face the situation. There was a long bench along the back wall; she sat down. Thoughts of what to do now turned into thoughts of Booth, which gradually lulled her to sleep.

********************************************

Booth looked up hopefully as the door opened, and had to work hard to hide his disappointment when it wasn't Brennan.

"Booth! You're awake!" Angela thankfully kept her squeal low as she carefully hugged him. "How are you feeling? What did the doctor say? Where's Bren?"

"Yep. Killer headache, but that's normal. Everything should be fine. And I don't know," he answered, long practice enabling him to keep up with her questions.

"Don't know--what does _that _mean?" she asked, eyes narrowing.

"When I woke up, she bolted. Ange, I don't know. I think I said something about not knowing her. I had this really vivid dream and I think I confused it with this--" he waved at the room. "And she spit out all this _stuff_ right away…" He gently rubbed at his forehead, just under the bandaging.

"Typical Bren," she agreed. "Have you had her paged?"

"Yeah."

"Then she's ignoring it or she can't hear it. And if she's in the hospital I can find her."

"She could have gone home," he offered, wincing as his head twinged.

"Nah. Her stuff's still here." She rummaged through Brennan's bag and showed him her bulky key ring. "Not to mention her wallet's still here. She can't go anywhere without these."

"Call her?" he asked, feeling a little stupid for not having noticed that on his own.

"Phone's on silent, hun, I'd bet any amount you like on it. I'll find her, though--I promise."

"I'm not Parker," he grumbled, finding her tone just a little patronizing, and she laughed.

"No, he's cuter. On the other hand, you're hotter. Must come with age." She winked and he began to relax. At least _something _was normal.

"Wait--" he called, remembering something.

"Yes?"

"Two things, actually--the nurse said something about Bones being here the entire time?"

"She was." Angela looked as though she wanted to say more, but refrained. "And the other?"

He nudged the laptop; the battery had to be absolute top of the line, since it was still working. "She must have been working on this while I was out. She deleted it."

"And you want a copy. What is it, her declaration of undying love?" Angela teased, digging about in her own bag. She pulled out a flash drive and plugged it in.

"Prepared much?" he wanted to know, declining to rise to her bait.

She grinned. "Bren keeps gloves and evidence bags with her all the time; I have a flash drive, sketch pad, and pencils." She tapped a few keys, smiled, and shut everything down. "We'll let it charge for her. I'll make you a hard copy as well as email it. That OK?"

"That's fine." He closed his eyes.

She patted his hand gently. "You rest, Booth. I'll run down Bren and bring her back."

********************************************

Brennan jerked awake at the light touch on her back, hands starting to fall into defensive positions, ready to defend herself.

"Bren! Stop! It's just me!"

"Ange," she sighed, sitting up and rubbing at her eyes. "Sorry. When--"

"Not too long ago." Angela slid an arm about Brennan's shoulders comfortingly. "I'd've never expected you to be here, sweetie."

"It was quiet."

The artist nodded understandingly. "Well, come on, Bren, let's get a cup of coffee or something. You need to go back upstairs."

"No! Not yet. He-he doesn't--I can't--"

"Sweetie. You're jumping to conclusions. Come on." She hauled Brennan out of the chapel and into a ladies room to straighten her appearance. Then into the cafeteria for the promised coffee. "What are you afraid of, Bren?"

"Booth--Booth doesn't know who I am. I suppose it's a side effect from the surgery and the complication from the anesthesia." She sat with her hands folded on the table, staring at the cup, forcing herself to some semblance of calm.

"Or maybe it was the natural and _temporary _confusion following surgery and a coma?"

"He asked me who I was!" She couldn't hide the heart-broken note in her voice. "God, Ange, I've worked with him for more than four years, we've become such good friends as well as partners, and--and…" she pulled a tissue from her pocket, "and he doesn't know me!"

"Temperance Brennan!" Angela said in shock. "I never thought I'd see you give up. You haven't gathered all the evidence yet, you know. You've barely started. And as long as you hide like this, you won't be able to get what you need." She sighed. "I know you won't believe me yet, but he's _fine_. Now drink your coffee before it gets cold, sweetie. And you _are _going back up there if I have to drag you--or better yet, have a burly security guard haul you up there over his shoulder."

Abashed, Brennan swiped at the tears and drank the coffee. Angela got her a refill.

"Here, while it's still hot. And once you've seen Booth and been reassured, I swear you are going home. Catnaps in that medieval torture instrument they think is a chair do not add up to enough sleep, nor are coffee and stale sandwiches enough to live on. He'll rest better for knowing you're taking care of yourself." Then she threw in her last and best weapon. "He's going to need help when he is discharged; how will you be able to do that if you're dead on your feet?"

"Is he really all right?" Brennan asked in a small voice.

"I wouldn't lie to you, Brennan. I suppose he could have some memory gaps, but he asked for you, for _Bones_. What further proof do you need?"

She drained her cup and found a clean tissue to wipe her face again. "All right," she declared. "Let's go."

Angela chuckled. "First, we're going to have to make another stop and clean you up."

********************************************

Eyes still closed, Booth fumbled for the painkiller button. He didn't think his head was getting worse, but it sure wasn't improving, either. And it hurt less to simply lie there, eyes closed.

It was quiet enough that he heard the faint click of the door opening and closing and someone walking lightly across the room. No, two someones. A quick whiff of perfume cutting across the hospital disinfectant told him Angela had returned. Had she found Bones?

More light footsteps, coming to the bed now. He knew that rhythm, just as he knew the scent that briefly filled his nose, and he allowed himself a deep breath. _Bones._

"'Bout time you came back, Bones," he said, not moving.

There was an indignant huff.

"Seeley Booth," she started and he cracked an eyelid.

"You sound like my mother. Tell me I never told you my middle name? That would just be wrong."

"Michael," she replied.

"Damn." He opened both eyes and regarded her. She was thinner, and he could see the echo of sleepless nights on her face. "You shouldn't've booked quite like that, Bones."

She flushed and sank into the chair at his bedside. "What did the doctor say?"

"You'll have to ask him for the details. All I heard was that I should be fine now that I'm awake. Take it easy, don't fight the urge to sleep, medicate as necessary--" he held up the button for the painkiller. "Found something I shouldn't react to too badly. Tests tomorrow to make sure all is well on the inside."

She nodded soberly. "Did they say when tomorrow?"

"Early. Eight, maybe."

She nodded again. They stared at each other in mutual speechlessness.

"Bones--" He held out a hand and she slowly took it. Her grip tightened almost to the point of pain, but he said nothing.

"Bren, Booth," Angela said softly from behind her. "I'm just going to let everyone know you're all right. Don't know if you want any more visitors today, though."

"No," he said, keeping his eyes on his partner. "They can come tomorrow after my tests."

"Parker?"

He cleared his throat. "Maybe I should call Rebecca."

"I can get him if she can't bring him," Brennan offered softly.

"Thanks, Bones." He tried to tighten his own grip and was dismayed at how weak it was. But she didn't seem distressed. "Yeah, Ange, call Cam and Hodgins. I'll talk to Rebecca."

Angela came around, dropped a light kiss on his forehead and hugged Brennan. "So glad you're back with us, G-Man," she said sincerely before stepping out of the room.

"Here," Brennan said, pulling out her own phone. "Why don't you talk to her now?"

"Wouldn't want to give her any more reason to yell at me," he agreed. She gave him a wan smile, still not entirely recovered from her earlier shock, and dialed.

"Rebecca--yes, it's Dr. Brennan. There's someone here who wants to speak with you." She handed it over to Booth.

"Becs?" He winced as she shrieked. "Not so loud," he begged. "For the sake of my headache, if nothing else. No, today. Not too long ago, actually." He smiled broadly. "Tomorrow, after school? That would be great. Should be done with the tests they want then. No, Bones has volunteered to help if you can't stay…Don't know, depends on what they say after tomorrow. All right, see you then--thanks."

He handed the phone back, visibly fading.

"Go back to sleep, Booth," she urged gently.

"C'mere," he mumbled, patting the sheets. "Guy hug."

That startled a laugh out of her, but she perched on the edge of the bed and slid arms about him carefully, resting her head against his free shoulder. "Scared?" she whispered.

"Relieved," he replied just before his eyes closed.

********************************************

When Angela came back in, she found them both asleep in that position. With a smile, she covered Brennan with the blanket she had been using the entire time, then settled in to wait. It seemed all was right with the world--or would be, soon enough.


	32. Independence Day

I had intended to post this actually on the Fourth, but it's still the weekend, at least where I am, so it counts, right?

* * *

_July 4, 1978_

"We can't stay here, Max!" Ruth hissed. "The whole world's going to be coming after us now!"

"I know, I know," he snapped back, white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. That thought hadn't left his mind since they had fled from the looming bloodbath. He and his wife had only exchanged a handful of words each since getting into the car.

"_We can't keep doing this."_

"_I know. And we won't."_

"Kyle and Joy--"

"I _said _I know, Ruthie!" Max stared at the road ahead of them. "We get the hell out of Dodge first, fix ourselves up with new IDs. Thank God the kids are young enough to adapt."

"I don't know about Kyle," she murmured. "He's six, almost seven, that's plenty old enough."

"We're just going to have to try. Damn!" He thumped the dash. "We should have told them no from the very beginning."

"They would have turned us in, Max," she reminded him gently. "Even though we were thinking about getting out of the business, we would have been arrested and the kids dumped in foster care."

"At least until your sisters showed up."

She tipped her head to the side in rueful agreement. "And God only knows how they'd react to it all."

"If we run, you won't be able to see them--or any of your family--again."

"I know," she whispered. "But this one--" she pointed down "--is more important to me." They drove a little further in silence, before Ruth turned on the radio. The announcer's voice crackled out of the speakers.

"…_and in breaking news, the hostage stand-off outside the_ _Winters Bank Tower has ended. A federal sniper brought down the alleged gang leader; resistance is said to have collapsed with his death. To recap: one state trooper and two civilians are dead following a shoot-out in downtown Dayton earlier today. Seven others were wounded. Police say the perpetrators are believed to part of a gang that has terrorized the Midwest over the past five years. Several are in custody, but a number of gang members apparently fled the scene…"_

"They're talking about us," Ruth said softly.

"Not just us," he corrected her. "I saw some of the others leave before we did. Couldn't pin too many names to their backs, but Jay and Vinnie definitely were among them." He and Ruth had been among those on the fringes of the action and he was pretty sure the cops hadn't spotted them leaving. But if they captured any of the other gang members, they might just sing the cops a pretty song to save their own necks. And running, period, might put them just as squarely into the gang's sites. He growled. _I hate being backed into a corner_.

"Oh, God. The worst of them."

"I know." He took the next exit. "Which is why we're heading home and _now_. Screw the rendezvous. I don't want to leave the kids alone too long."

"Do you have a plan?"

He shrugged. "Just that we're running. It's going to be hard, hun. If we run too fast, we might attract attention from the wrong people. If not fast enough, the gang will catch up with us. As for the rest, well, we can pick new names and identities, and Joe--you remember him? Moved to the Carbondale area? He makes good IDs and documents."

"You forget what we found in that safe deposit box a few days ago," she said, eyes drifting to where they had shoved it into the padding of Joy's car seat. "Someone will be after us for that, too."

"We could turn that in," he suggested half-heartedly. They had already discussed it several times. "There's got to be at least one honest soul in the FBI."

"And how would you know you'd found him? If you turn that over to the wrong person, they _will _kill us. _And _our kids! We can't risk that! The corruption goes high enough up that we'd never escape!"

"We won't do any better if they figure it out and we haven't turned it in! Might even be worse!"

"But we've got a fighting chance this way! Standing there just gives them a better target!"

He grit his teeth. She was right about that. But they were going to have to find a better place to hide it; he didn't feel right about just destroying it. _I'm Robin Hood_, he had told Ruth early on in their relationship--a romantic outlaw with a sense of justice. He had met Marvin Beckett once at a rally, though he doubted the man would remember, and had been impressed.

His Ruth, though, was the surprisingly pragmatic one. She'd burn the papers and tapes, given half the chance, and leave no evidence.

He couldn't do that. There had to be a safe place _somewhere _for it.

He pulled up in front of the house and Ruth hopped out even before he set the brake, heading for the neighbors' place to collect the kids while he checked inside. While too soon for anyone to have done a count of the missing and then come looking for them, it paid to be cautious.

_All clear_. He waited in the door for Ruth to come back; she was chatting with old Mrs. Byrd, Joy in her arms, and no one would have ever guessed she was strung as tight as a guitar string. Such a good actress, but he always known that about her.

"Dad!" Kyle shouted, pelting over. Max grinned and caught him about the shoulders in a rough hug.

"Were you good for Mrs. Byrd?"

"Uh-huh."

"Good. Go on inside, think about dinner."

"Are we going to see the fireworks, Dad?"

Max made a noncommittal sound. "We'll see. Maybe just from the roof."

As Kyle ran inside, Ruth and Joy came back.

"Daddy!"

"There's my pumpkin," he smiled, taking her and tickling her stomach. "Did you miss me?"

She nodded, eyes wide and smiling. He perched her on his shoulders and she giggled, clutching at his hair.

"Ruthie," he murmured. "I think we should start packing, but Kyle wants to see the fireworks."

"We can go through some of the perishables in the fridge, have a picnic, sit on the roof," she replied calmly. "No point in wasting food, and I'd say we have two days at most."

He nodded slowly. "That's what I was thinking."

**********************************************************

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Kyle?"

"There's a guy outside, wants to see you."

Max looked up at the nervous tone in his son's voice, then over his head and out the window. "Damn," he muttered. "Go up to your room, son. Keep an eye on your sister, please--keep her upstairs."

"Daddy?" Nervous was changing to scared, and Kyle dropped the paper he had run outside for with a soft thump.

"Just do it," Max snapped. "Tell your mom to come down. And then you and Joy stay up there until I come for you. _Do you understand me?_"

"Yes, Daddy."

Max could hear him run upstairs even as he himself stepped outside. "Hey, Vince. You're up early."

"Max." The genial smile didn't fool him one bit. "You two didn't show up at the rendezvous point. Thought I should check. Ruthie all right?"

"We thought it might be better to stay low. Didn't know what the feds or the cops might have heard," he replied easily. "The location might have slipped out."

"No fear of that," Vince laughed raucously. "You ever read pirate stories?"

"Yeah, when I was a boy."

"You remember what they used to say about dead men."

Max nodded in feigned approval, masking his surprise that they had connections inside. "Didn't know it was taken care of. Anyway, no point in drawing attention if they aren't looking for us."

"Well, now, that's what I told Jay you two might be thinking. Hey, Ruth," he added as she stepped outside. "Just telling your husband here that we thought we'd've seen you two yesterday."

Her hand slid over Max's as it tightened into a fist at Vince's suggestive tone and the way his eye took in the signs of her hasty dressing. "Thanks, Vince. Given the situation, we thought it best to lie low for a little while. Figured everyone else would be, too. And we've got the children to think of."

"Yeah, you do," McVicar nodded. "Would hate to see anything happen to those sweet kids." His voice was heavy with meaning and Ruth's hand tightened on Max's in reflex. "How's little Joy? Kyle looked good. Growing like a weed, like my dad used to say."

"We'll do our best to make sure they stay safe." Max managed to keep his voice level. "Look, just tell the boss what we're doing, and not to expect to see us for a while. I can't imagine you're going to run a job anytime soon where you'd need us. I mean, why stick our heads up--yours, _or_ mine--when there's a chance somebody's watching for it, right?"

"Right." McVicar looked Ruth up and down again. "OK. See ya 'round. Don't wait too long, though!"

"Sure."

"Tomorrow," Max said, watching the pick-up drive away.

"Tomorrow," Ruth agreed. "But we'd better go rescue Joy from her overprotective brother."

"How do you feel about the name Cathleen?" he asked as they turned to go inside.

"I'd prefer Christine."

**********************************************************

Max sighed as he packed the things Ruth--_Christine_--had deemed most necessary into the trunk of the car in the pre-dawn light. He would have thought that once they decided to go straight, he wouldn't have to keep looking over his shoulder. What was that saying about eternal vigilance and freedom?

Was it really worth it?

The door opened and _Russ _came out, backpack on his shoulder and towing two other bags. He handed the bags to his father and climbed into the backseat. Christine followed, _Temperance _in her arms. His little girl gave him a sleepy smile as her mother fastened her into her car seat, tucking her bag of toys and books next to her.

"Almost done, _Matt_," Christine murmured, laying the same emphasis on their new names as he was. "Where's your box?"

"Under the front seat already. No worries. D'you need any help?"

"No--got it." She kissed his cheek and went back inside. He walked around to look at Russ and Temperance. Russ was worrying at the seatbelt, looking out the window, and Temperance was already back asleep, cheek pressed against the side of the car seat.

Matthew Brennan straightened back up and took a deep breath.

Yes. It was more than worth it.


	33. Horrible, isn't it?

_"Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up__."— Neil Gaiman_

_

* * *

_

"Losing a loved one…"

"_Partner_, Sweets, I lost a _partner_." Her correction was automatic, they had said it so many times. Not that she would have to any more, though--in a year's time, the only person she might have to say that to was herself.

"Someone close to you." _Marginally better_. "The funeral allows you to grieve so you can come to terms with his death."

_What if I don't want to? _some part of her shrieked while the rest of her took refuge in her beloved anthropology. "The Arunta aboriginal tribe in Australia grieve by burning down their village and moving to a new one. That seems no crazier to me than gathering around a hole in the ground."

_Loved one?_ The rest of her mind dwelled on his earlier comment, and she set her jaw, determined to let nothing else show as she looked over the Provencal skeleton._ Mom used to say when I asked her that you just knew when it was love--if you questioned it, it probably wasn't. I hated that answer. Still do. Because I _didn't _know until it was too late. Love? Yes, I loved him. I'm sure of it now. But he's gone and so are my chances, so why admit it? He was _just _my partner and friend, that's all, _she thought, not for the first time, trying to convince herself. _No more, no less_.

She knew her withdrawal had upset her friends, especially Angela. But she had no words left to explain. _Always too slow to understand feelings. Even my own_. She would simply have to live with Booth's death and the gaping metaphorical hole in her heart. Surely it couldn't be any worse than losing her parents.

_It should actually be easier_, she mused a short time later, sitting stoically next to Angela in the car. Her friend wielded emotional blackmail better than anyone on the planet when she had a mind to. Even Brennan wasn't immune, and had finally given in and let them escort her out of the lab. _After all, I _know _what happened to him. I'm an adult now. I lived 30 years not even knowing him, surely I can go another 30 remembering him_.

She let her friends, rather, her _family_--she had to remember she wasn't entirely alone this time--pull her out of the car, walk her over to the grave site. They all stood in a line, backs to an Army honor guard, but she kept her eyes fixed on other things: the grass at her feet, the roses in their vase, the headstones beyond the other attendees. Not that she knew any of them besides Caroline and Cullen.

And she was well aware of her coworkers' surreptitious glances as they checked on her. Maybe later, she would appreciate their concern. Now, however… She compressed her mouth, striving to prevent any emotional outburst. _If I start, I won't stop_.

Caroline laid a rose on top of the coffin and everything hit Brennan all at once. This really was it, the final, ultimate event in Booth's life. Once that coffin was lowered into the ground, he would be completely gone--except for all the little reminders scattered about her office and apartment, the too-vivid memories in her head. She truly would have preferred the Arunta way with its fewer reminders. _Maybe I should go on a dig, where I won't be expecting _him _to show up every time I turn around_.

When one of the honor guard suddenly pushed his way through their line, though, she was simply resigned, rather than indignant as she might have been in the past. When had anything gone as it should around _him_? Now, her life would be empty of such surprises; two years ago, she would have welcomed it. Not his death, _never_ that, but the predictability.

Later, she wondered at how natural and automatic her reactions were (no wonder he had thought she knew!). She wasn't sure her conscious mind had even registered it was Booth before she had moved.

It was that incredulous look on his face, that blurted "what?" that blew her apart. All her carefully reconstructed walls, her uncertainty, her grief and guilt--gone in a heartbeat and the swing of a fist. And her pain--and love--lying sprawled on the ground behind her as she stormed away.

* * *

I hoped I captured what had to be wildly fluctuating emotions for her. Please let me know what I did right--or wrong!


	34. Of Smurfs, Jocks, and Olive Branches

I daresay it is once again time to say that I do not own any of these characters no matter how much I wish I did.

My friends, while I am not a review whore, nor one who holds stories hostage, it is undeniable that I have had a minimum of reviews recently. This makes me so sad... :( I could use the feedback and the emotional boost. Cheer up a writer today--review!

Thanks...

* * *

It was only later, after the case was solved, that he realized what she had said and what it meant.

"_Only one other person knew about Brainy Smurf. It was my mother."_

Putting the pieces together, he swore at himself. For the captain of a varsity team to be involved, Bones could not have been a freshman; while varsity wasn't just juniors and seniors, it was unheard of for a sophomore to be captain. And damn few upperclassmen like that ever considered being involved with freshmen. He himself wouldn't have, no matter how advanced she was, no matter how many of his classes she might have shared.

And for all of that to fall into place, it would have to have been the winter of her sophomore year. In other words, the same year her parents left.

The same _month _her parents left, to be exact.

And a small incident that would have eventually faded into insignificance became magnified. No wonder she hated the holiday.

He groaned, lightly hitting his head against the steering wheel. On the surface, it had been funny. But it was Bones, and he should have realized the minute she started referring to Christmas that it was going to be uncomfortable for her at the very least. And then he upset her by laughing, despite his promise that he wouldn't. He couldn't blame her for being mad at him.

There _were_ stories he could tell her to put them back in balance, he supposed, but somehow the memories dredged up by talking to the victim's father were not the right ones. Painful, but not humiliating in the same sense, not to mention they revealed the…wrong things. Things he'd rather not think about, wasn't ready to talk about, hadn't talked about in years. Which was why he had been telling her about the girls instead. Of course those had fallen flat because, while embarrassing enough at the time, they were simply funny now.

Though he thought he might have finally found the right story to tell her. Hopefully, she would understand what he was getting at. Hard enough just saying it, without having to explain. Sweets would probably say that was the point.

Making a sudden decision, he turned the SUV and headed for the mall. There was a shop nearby that sold retro and nostalgia items, and he thought they had a bin of Smurf figurines.

******************************************************

He hadn't been wrong; in fact the bin was larger than he remembered and he impatiently pawed through, looking for that glimpse of yellow hair that meant Smurfette.

As he looked, he wondered exactly what it had been about Smurfette that Bones had been drawn to; or if it was just that it--she--was the sole female character among them.

He couldn't believe how many variations he was finding--Smurfs holding cakes, gifts, scissors, flowers; an astronaut, the top guy in red, a clown (he dropped that one as though it were on fire)… But no Smurfette. He sighed as he checked his watch. He was due to meet Bones for dinner in less than an hour. He really wanted to do this for her, even if she didn't accept his story.

He closed his eyes and plunged his hand in, pulling one more out. Looking down, his mouth quirked.

Brainy Smurf.

_"It was a Brainy Smurf."_ He could still hear her cool, matter-of-fact voice.

He turned the figure over in his fingers, thinking. If he remembered the cartoon from when he watched it as a boy…Brainy was a know-it-all pain in the neck who usually meant well but was often misunderstood. There was more, he was sure, and not so complimentary, but still better than being the token female character, who rarely had an active role and could be selfish--not much like Bones.

Oh yeah, he could work with that.

Whistling softly, he took Brainy to the register, already planning his speech. _Looks and more… No. You have your looks and a whole lot more… Yeah, that's the right note…._

_

* * *

_

_I'm aware that after I stopped watching the little blue monsters, they added more female characters. But I (and Booth) would have watched the earliest episodes._


	35. Fantasy

A T-rated fic for your reading pleasure--I'm not changing the overall rating, just yet, though! Definitely set after Double Trouble, and possibly after Passenger.

* * *

Seeley Booth has a lot of dreams, mostly inappropriate, about his partner. Even in the very beginning, when he would have told anyone who asked that he preferred leggy blondes, he'd had at least one naughty dream about Bones. Something about the gun range and her getting up into his face and…well, he can't remember the original details anymore--he's re-imagined it too often.

Over the years, he's been given lots of fuel for his dreams turned fantasies. He knows how she feels in his arms or under him, and even what she feels like pressed up against him. He's had a taste or three of how her lips feel on him, and he _definitely _wants more. He's seen her in almost every style of clothing from her lab coat and jumpsuit to formal to sexy to that little robe she answered the door in once.

He also has a good imagination and a talent for creating a whole picture from fragments. Hence a favorite fantasy of Bones in nothing but her lab coat, usually in her office or sometimes on the platform. Not that it was likely to happen in reality. But he has a really good picture of it, regardless.

When she falls asleep on him (unfortunately seldom literally), it simply allows him to add another level, more texture to his dreams.

He doesn't see her sleep often, however. She may have given him a key, but he rarely uses it, knowing how she reacts to surprises. And the handful of nights spent on her couch--well, he had slept too well to go wandering. Admittedly, there had been their two undercover operations, but he had been too keyed up to dwell on it. He has caught glimpses at other times--through the window that time in the desert, little naps on her office couch, and even more rarely, drifting off in the car--and they had fuelled a few lovely fantasies about kissing her awake and using that drowsy, not-quite-awake time to seduce her into a long, leisurely session of making love.

Which is part of the problem now, of course.

She's just back from a grueling book tour, with interviews scheduled right up until departure time. He had picked her up at the airport, at her request. (Her publishing house would have arranged a car, but she had refused. "I'll know I'm home, if you come," she had confided in a rare moment of openness. "You or Ange, anyway," she had added, eyes twinkling.) The usual banter and bickering had begun almost immediately. All familiar paths, made comfortable and reassuring by repetition.

She let him into her place, told him to have a beer if he liked, and disappeared into her bedroom to change, yawning every other word, she was so tired. He was a little disappointed--somehow that business-like white shirt and black skirt was more alluring than it should be. He can't blame her though--no woman has ever told him that nylons and heels were _comfortable_. Quite the opposite, in fact.

But she doesn't come back and he goes looking for her. She's sprawled on her bed, as though she had sat down and simply fallen asleep. The sight makes him pause; his thoughts make him grimace.

_This is not the time or place_, he reprimands himself. Bad enough he entertains fantasies about his partner, but to be in the same room as his _sleeping _partner-slash-best friend and lust over her--! No, no. But his eyes linger at the top of her shirt. That very business-like, white, button-front blouse. A "librarian" shirt.

His fingers itch to unbutton it and see what lies below. White bra, probably; most women he had observed wore white under white for everyday. But would it be all practical and _Bones_? Or did she hide some lacy froth under the professional scientist/eco-warrior façade? Front or back clasp?

He swallows hard. There will be trouble if he keeps this up. On the other hand…

She's so deeply asleep even another explosion won't wake her; there is no one else in the condo besides them. Angela's been told to not come by tonight. What harm just to _think _about it?

He gives in to the fantasy then. He would gently unbutton her shirt, taking his time as much to keep her from waking too soon as to savor every new inch of skin thus revealed. His mind freezes on that image--open shirt, a vaguely defined bra just a few shades paler than her skin. He knows she has generous curves for a woman so slim, and can see them clearly enough in his mind's eye, framed by white cloth.

He sinks onto the bed next to her, still dreaming. If he still doesn't want to wake her, it might be difficult to get the blouse off. He glances at her skirt instead. What was under there? So many possibilities--thong, boy-cut, granny (though he would bet a week's pay that she doesn't own a pair of those), _commando_? Is she one of those women fanatic about matching bra and panties or does she simply grab whatever was on top and wear that? But she's lying on the zipper, and again, he's not ready to disturb her, even in fantasy. Could he push it up at all? Maybe a little, but the stockings could be a problem. For his little dream, he should change it to something a little easier to peel off.

_I'm going to Hell_, he decides and breathes deeply, trying to push down his arousal. It really isn't right of him to do this, even if no one would ever know in order to take him to task for it.

The deep breaths, calm thoughts, and eyes fixed on his shoes work, at least enough for him to move beyond the sexy and sensual and notice the basic awkwardness of her position. _That can't be comfortable_.

He gently pulls off her shoes and unhooks her earrings, remembering how she had lost one in that trailer and it had jabbed his hand when he sat on the bed the next morning. Feeling like he was putting Parker to bed, which should be enough anti-eroticism for anyone, he gently shifts her enough to pull the covers back. Unfortunately for his good intentions, the hem of her skirt shifts upwards as well, allowing him to see the top of the thigh high stockings she wore and a sliver of skin above. The desire he had pushed down surges back with a vengeance.

_Oh, God_. He steps back, panting.

She sighs and curls up on her side as he watched. Gritting his teeth, he leans far enough over her to unclasp her necklace, grateful that he's used to the punch of her scent; at least he's not going to drool all over her.

He steps back again, scanning her. _Shoes, jewelry, hair was down already_-- In light of the little (!) fantasy he had already indulged in, he doesn't think he should remove anything else. _I don't know if my control's that good. Well, maybe the stockings_. He debates that for a while; in his fantasy, he would without question, but this isn't a fantasy, this is real life, no matter what's he's been thinking.

Without conscious thought, his finger gently traces the line of her stocking; she makes a faint purring sound.

That decides it for him. He covers her chastely with the sheet, not allowing himself to take further advantage. He's garnered enough impressions for a long time, if he ever can get over the guilt of how he got them.

He yawns now himself, and can almost hear her voice in his ear--_"If you're that tired, Booth, you shouldn't leave. Sleep here instead." _She's said it before and he takes the memory for the offer and begins to unbutton his shirt and toe off his shoes. Too bad her flight had come in right after he got out of work; he was going to have to sleep in his dress pants. He hates that, but there's no way he's going to sleep in Bones' house just in boxers.

Carefully, he sets his things on the bedside table, phone on vibrate, gun angled just _so _in case of trouble.

He stretches out on the bed, on top of the covers. It was a nice bed, even better than his own, and he wriggles his shoulders to get more comfortable. It's one more liberty, but somehow, he doesn't mind taking this one.

_Don't roll in your sleep_, he cautions himself, like he used to tell himself what time to wake in the morning when he was a Ranger. _Just __don't__. Bones will not appreciate it_. He closes his eyes. _It's enough to be right here, right now, without demanding more _is his final thought before falling asleep himself.

*******************

Angela carefully unlocked her friend's door. _Ten am; Bren should be up by now_. But it was surprisingly quiet, and not even the faintest whiff of coffee hung in the air. _Well, she got home, anyway. Her bags are here. Oh-ho-ho-ho, so is a certain G-Man's jacket. Did they get lucky?_ She grinned. _Did I get lucky is the real question._

She tiptoed through the dim condo to the bedroom. The door was open, which she considered another stroke of luck, giving her just enough light for her to see who's there.

Her first reaction was disappointment--Booth was sleeping, lying on his side, on top of the covers, wearing slacks, wifebeater, and funky socks. She could just see some of his things draped over a chair and piled on the table. Bren was curled up under the sheets, an echo of Booth, and a judicious bit of craning showed she was still wearing street clothes.

But the basic charm of the scene soon appealed to Angela's artistic nature, and she rapidly took several shots of them with her phone for later inspiration before withdrawing.

Still moving quietly, she started the coffee and left the partners to their dreams.


	36. Rusty

This comes from a brief discussion over on the ABY between myself, Robert Modean, & MoonlightGardenias about the status of Angela & Brennan's friendship. As things stand, I'd set it sometime after Girl in the Mask, even into S5.

And many thanks to (King) Robert for reading it over and offering his thoughts!

* * *

_May the hinges of our friendship  
__Never become rusty.  
__(Irish toast)_

_*_

Trying to juggle several bags and a large purse, Angela knocked on Brennan's door. _Should have called first_, the artist thought, shifting her grip yet again. _Maybe she's not home. Maybe she's got company already_.

The door finally opened, revealing a barefoot Brennan dressed comfortably in soft pants and an oversized t-shirt with _FBI _emblazoned down one side. "Ange? What are you doing here?"

"Hey, Bren. Thought I might just stop by and visit a bit. Girls' night in?" She hefted the bags in her left hand. "Brought ice cream and wine and some girly stuff. If you don't have any other plans, that is?"

"No," Brennan said slowly as she stepped back to let her friend in. "No, I don't," she said in a surer voice, deftly taking some of the bags after relocking the door.

"Where'd you get the FBI shirt?" Angela asked, dropping her purse by the door and pulling off her jacket.

"Booth, of course."

"Of course," Angela echoed dryly. "Who else? But that's not a new shirt, sweetie."

Brennan looked from the pints of ice cream she was pulling out of the bag to the slightly worn hem of the shirt and shrugged. "No, it's not. I was over at his place a few months ago and he tripped and spilled beer on me. Once he was finished apologizing, he brought this out for me to change into. After I washed it, I tried to give it back, but he said I should keep it. It _is _very comfortable," she added, smoothing it. "Let me get some bowls. How's the wine--should it go in the fridge?"

"No, it's good." As Brennan headed into the kitchen, Angela made a slow turn, taking in the details of her friend's apartment, seeing what had changed.

Everywhere she looked, there were signs of Booth's influence, from Bren's t-shirt (with its accompanying explanation) to the TV/entertainment center to the increase in pictures scattered about. She picked one of them up wistfully--it was one of the entire team before everything fell apart. She found herself gently tracing Zack's face and trying not to look at how close she and Jack were standing.

"Thanks for bringing over the Cherry Garcia, Ange," Brennan said, coming into the room with bowls, spoons, and a bottle of chocolate syrup. "Booth's been making me chocolate chip sundaes recently; you'd never believe that he actually stocks shaved chocolate to sprinkle on top instead of peanuts." She shook her head, smiling. "And he always gives me too much of everything."

"Well, I had to bring it, sweetie, I knew you wouldn't have any," Angela replied, setting the picture back down, noticing a shot of Booth and Parker next to it. In front of the Jeffersonian's dinosaur exhibit, if she wasn't mistaken.

"It's an entirely rational decision. I can't be tempted at 3am if there isn't any in the freezer. Besides, I don't need to actually buy any, what with Booth always feeding me. Of course, when I know I'm going to have company, I make sure I have something to offer…" She let her voice trail off with a shrug.

"Oh, is _that _why you have the chocolate sauce?"

Brennan actually blushed. "Yes. Booth brought Parker over one day. They were so disappointed that I didn't have any that Booth ran out and bought some, then left it in my fridge when they went home."

Angela grinned wickedly. "No other uses, Bren?"

The blush deepened, but so far as Angela could tell, Brennan was telling the truth when she denied it. _Pity_.

They settled on the couch, having emptied their respective cartons and drenched the contents with the chocolate.

"I'd have brought over a few movies too if I knew you had such a nice setup."

"I have some, though I don't know if any are--what do you call them--hen movies?"

"Chick flicks," Ange chuckled. "Where?"

"Under the TV."

Angela knelt and opened the doors. Three rows of carefully lined up DVD boxes faced her--clear indication that despite Booth's growing influence, Bren was holding her own. _Let's see. Couple seasons of MacGyver. Documentary. Documentary. Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Clue? Historical documentary. Shakespeare. Flaming Youth. Anthropological documentary. Mission: Impossible--the series. Huh. Down with Love--well, that's more like it. And Ewan MacGregor's easy on the eyes. The Quiet Man and Donovan's Reef. Shakespeare. Shakespeare in Love. OK. Documentary. Chicago--that's workable. A set of Clara Bow movies. Princess Bride. Star Wars. Wait--_Star Wars_?_

Shaking off her astonishment, Angela pulled out Down with Love. "How about this one, sweetie?"

"That's fine." Brennan picked up a remote, turned on the TV, and opened the DVD player for her.

*******************************************

"I'm glad you came over, Ange," Brennan said quietly as the end credits rolled. "We haven't done this in a while."

"I know--when was the last time?" Angela asked, pouring more wine into her glass. Empty ice cream bowls and bottles of nail polish rested on the table in front of them and Brennan had been admiring the shimmery violet shade she had just applied to her toes.

"When I came back from London, I think."

"Oh. That's right." She remembered that; right after the Jack and Grayson fiasco. Brennan had come over to Angela's old place, listened to her, sympathized as best she could. There had been a great deal of alcohol involved, and not much else, if she wasn't mistaken. She suddenly wasn't sure if that even counted--so when was the last time before that?

Outside of a few "glug-glug, whoo-hoo" nights and several lunches, it must have been not long after she and Jack had gotten engaged.

"Sweetie--I'm sorry!"

"For what?"

"I've been neglecting you. I got so wrapped up with Jack--then Roxie--"

"You merely apportioned your time as you saw fit, Ange," Brennan said, still quiet; Angela knew it covered a hurt Bren didn't want to share--or wasn't comfortable voicing. "I've always heard that a fiancé takes a certain amount of precedence…and I didn't want to intrude…"

"But not from the best friend! You _are _still my best friend, aren't you, Bren?"

"Of course!"

Angela threw her arms about Brennan in relief, and Brennan hugged back with no apparent reservations.

But then her cell rang, interrupting them, and she glanced down at the caller ID. "I should take that, Ange. If you don't mind?"

"Not at all--go ahead." She could hardly refuse, having caught the name on the display.

Brennan got up and walked toward the kitchen, and Angela set up the next movie, pretending she wasn't listening. "This had better not be about a case, Booth…Yes, I have company…no, Ange came over." She laughed at whatever he said, actually _laughed _in a way Angela had rarely heard. "Sorry. What is it you keep saying to me? 'You snooze, you lose'? She's been here a couple hours…I suppose we might…" Another laugh. "No, you _don't _want to come over, and we don't want any men around right now, either. How else could we talk about all those things that would just embarrass you?…Right. _Those _kinds of 'girly things.' Not to mention things like…_sex_. Bad boyfriends. You couldn't handle it…no, not a challenge, but a statement of fact. It doesn't make you any less of an alpha male…" A chuckle. "All right, yes, I'll see you tomorrow. Coffee, just in case…No, I doubt I'll want any ice cream; I've had more than enough for the weekend already…You can _too _have too much…Angela thanks you for the chocolate syrup, by the way…We almost finished the bottle…Don't worry, I'll pick up more before Parker comes again…Yes, yes, _yes_--don't _worry _about that. We're all grown up, you know…Good night, Booth." The phone snapped shut.

"That was Booth," she said unnecessarily, coming back to the couch with a smile lingering on her mouth.

"So I heard. Did he want to come over?"

"Yes, but I told him you were here."

"How often does he come over--or you go over to his place?" Angela asked, curiosity piqued.

Brennan bit her lip, thinking. "Quite a lot, now that I think about it. Always after each case, and usually whenever we have no other plans for a weekend. Sometimes he and Parker invite me to join them on one of their daytrips."

"What do you do?"

"With Parker? Zoos, parks, museums, or some similar activity, followed by dinner. But when it's just Booth, it's actually not that different from tonight. We talk, watch movies, eat. Different subjects, of course. And no nail polish," she added, wriggling her toes. "Beer or scotch instead of wine."

"Yeah, I saw how much beer you had in the fridge when I was in the kitchen. I was wondering why you had so much, and why so little of it was the imported stuff you used to have. Guess that answers that question."

Brennan shrugged and added wine to her own glass. "What did you put in there?" she asked, nodding at the TV.

"Chicago--though I thought about The Quiet Man." She giggled. "I love that scene with the bed."

Brennan grinned. "It is amusing, though I doubt any sturdily made wooden bed frame and proper mattress would actually break like that. And if he had been able to throw her that hard, she should have sustained--"

"You mean Booth hasn't taught you suspension of disbelief yet?" Angela asked mockingly.

"He tries--but in this, I am not a good student."

"He has my sympathy--God knows I've tried to teach you that sort of thing myself. Now, where's the remote? Let's get this movie going!"

But once Bren was absorbed in the scandalous doings of Roxie Hart and Velma Kelly, Angela found herself studying her friend. _You may be my best friend, but Booth is yours now, isn't he? "You snooze, you lose" indeed._

* * *

From Wikipedia: _In an episode of the Fox TV series, Bones, forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan's undercover persona "Roxie," is based on Brennan's memories of watching Bow's films as a child. Her partner mentions that Clara Bow was a silent screen star, to which Brennan replies that she was imitating what she imagined Bow sounded like. Obviously, Brennan had never seen Bow's "talkie" work._ I know; it has little to do with the story, but I'm easily amused sometimes. Flaming Youth, by the by, is another early silent, starring Colleen Moore, the first of the flappers.


	37. Eleventh Month Decision

I've noticed a small upswing in Sully stories (did I miss a spoiler or something?) and it made me think. I don't know that I've seen one like this. Oh, and I might be wrong about cell and wireless signals…call it poetic license.

* * *

Tim Sullivan, late of the FBI, and now master of the _Temperance_, stretched out on the aft deck to study the night sky. It had been eleven months since he had sailed out of DC, and he had only a week or two left if he was going to return to DC when expected. But what would be waiting for him?

Tempe. Only Tempe, and maybe a job he was afraid of. Oh, not that the actual job itself scared him; the physical requirements were nothing to be concerned about, there were plenty of mental challenges, though the prospect of loss was rather daunting to go through again. But it was far too easy to burn out, focusing solely on the evil Man did. Not many could handle it, and he no longer understood those who could. Like Booth, like Cullen until it was his daughter affected, or, or… He sighed. _Or Temperance_.

He had thought about her a lot when he first left; for a while, he saw her in every brunette who crossed his path. They had exchanged emails and phone calls when he could. All very friendly, but hardly the stuff to set the world on fire. Once or twice, he thought he detected a note of wistful regret when she told him about the harder cases. And he noted she never mentioned her father's case--he had had to read about that in a paper months old. And the frequency had fallen off, too. On his side as much as on hers.

Their affair had been more than a fling--he was positive of that. Just not the undying love he wished for. But the fact was, they were too different. It had taken him a while to realize that, but now it was clear as the stars hanging above him.

He loved change, thrived on it, in fact. And he was considering heading back to be with a woman to whom change was anathema. Tempe had told him very little about her past, but he had picked up some of it, done a little research while he still worked for the FBI. Maybe he wasn't the agent Booth was, but he was no slouch. And what he knew was that she craved stability as a reaction to her adolescence. _Not_ that she would ever admit that!

Sailing satisfied his need for change, his thirst for the unexpected was well sated when a storm could blow up at any time and send him hundreds of miles off his present course, when he never knew what he'd see in the air or in the water. Running charters for extra cash gave him ever-changing human company when he wanted it. But Tempe--she needed a different sort of stimulation along with her stability. And the only place she was likely to find that was in DC, with or without Booth. Not sailing around the Caribbean.

He thought about the day he had left; not once had he asked her if the shadowy figure at the far end of the dock had been Booth. He had never really wanted to know. And with unusual tact, she had never mentioned that day. At least, he thought it was tact. It could be that she didn't want to talk about it herself or that she had already dismissed it as irrelevant. Hard to tell with her.

He had believed Booth that they had never been involved, if not that there was no interest. Didn't _understand_ it, but believed it. But their connection was undeniable. And that, he was sure, was half the reason she hadn't wanted to leave. As his eyes closed, he couldn't help wondering if the man had finally made his move.

When he woke, the sky directly above him was the exact color of Tempe's eyes. And he found he had decided.

Slowly pushing himself to his feet, he checked the maps and altered course for the nearest port, wanting to get in range of a signal and call her. He didn't think she would argue with his decision.

* * *

Despite the fact that I don't like to rewatch those episodes very often, I couldn't quite be mean to him (besides, there's been a lot of those). But I did want some closure--even if I had to provide it myself!


	38. Tarot

In honor of the teasers for the season 5 opener…and loosely based on a still I saw with Brennan, Angela, and the psychic sitting outside with a deck of cards. Having some fun with my reference books, these are by no means official Tarot readings (and are possibly completely unlikely), though the meanings are straight out of my books.

* * *

Brennan frowned at her computer screen, agitated on so many levels. Booth wasn't himself, Caroline was interfering with the investigation, a _psychic _was telling them where to find dead bodies, and the same woman was not only right, but had insinuated herself into the case. She didn't care that Angela thought so highly of the woman--and who calls themselves Avalon Harmonia, anyway?

And why was she spending her evening looking up Tarot cards? _It's all superstition_, she reminded herself, but kept reading. It was turning into a fascinating examination of a cultural subset she had never come into contact with before, that was why. Or so she told herself.

"_You are the Queen of Cups," the woman had said, tapping the card authoritatively. "A water card, a powerful woman, one who, by her deeds, can cause dreams of all kinds to come true. I'm not talking about animated clichés. You fight for justice and give identity to the lost and thereby fulfill a desire, a need, or an ideal, if you prefer."_

A reluctant smile crossed her lips. She actually liked that description. And this website's deck--not the same one used earlier--the drawing bore a certain vague resemblance to herself. In coloration at least.

"_Reinforced by the Knight of Swords. You don't back down from much, do you, Temperance? The courage of your convictions, if you will. But it borders on the rash at times."_

Brennan rolled her eyes; she couldn't help it. She supposed she was impetuous once in a while, but all in a good cause. Not that _Booth _usually agreed--! The thought of him wiped the smile from her face as it brought back her concerns. She had tried not to let it show, but the lack of his gaudy accessories had distressed her, and the fact he wasn't aware that there was something wrong disturbed her even more. He was harder to read now, so she had no idea if he had picked up her emotional state. It was their first year of working together all over again, she thought with a sigh before typing in the name of the next card. If less--combative.

"_Another Cup--the Two. Cups are usually a good thing. They're feminine, indicators of creativity, and symbolize the bearing of the life-force. That is not always to be taken literally," she added, holding up a hand as Brennan began to protest. "Writers and artists as well as mothers, inventors, and nurturers share this suit. Now, the Two-- it's a sign of news or something positive coming in love and friendship. Sometimes an actual change, sometimes just the promise of better times."_

Brennan clicked on the link for the Two of Cups and one phrase jumped out at her: "Heart rather than head rules." She swallowed hard, remembering what Booth had said to her about head and heart. What about the other cards?

"_It's surrounded by several interesting cards. The Chariot, the Ace of Pentangles, and the Hanged Man. Unusual to see these clustered together. The Ace could be an indication of your own position in the world--you are at the top of a demanding field, you write best-sellers. In short, you strive and usually succeed at being the best. But being near the Two, it can also indicate the beginning of a romantic relationship, and one in which, once you are committed to it, you will work hard at making it work as well as the rest."_

That seemed to be a rather unique interpretation based on what she was reading here, Brennan decided, wondering exactly how much Angela had told Avalon. Most references to that card were more materially successful, reflecting the coin in the image.

"_The Chariot, now--that's a strange one. By itself, it can be an indicator of a strong mind, a strong will, but also a reminder that 'all work and no play make Jack a dull boy.' Or Jill a dull girl, as the case may be. But in close proximity to the Two…there is also a more literal meaning. Traveling with love; or to put it in more prosaic terms, carpooling with the beloved."_

_Angela had choked on laughter at that. "Oh, you have no idea," she murmured. _

_Brennan glared at her. "Can we get on with this? I have things to do at the lab; Booth needs to know about the test results…"_

Now, she flushed, realizing the unfortunate juxtaposition. So what else about the Chariot, anyway? "Referring to Man's mind as his only weapon for survival." "Union of opposites." _Coincidence_, she thought and resolutely moved on the next card.

"_The Hanged Man--this card is often misinterpreted. It's…subtle, something I sense you are not. This is not torture; he is unbound; in some decks he even smiles a little. If there is any bondage, it is easily escaped. The most common interpretation is that there is some sort of hanging in limbo, the querant is suspended between things--events, decisions, feelings, even. A sign that it's time to change your perspective, shake things up."_

She wondered how anyone could believe in this--it was all so contradictory. Progression and suspension, sacrifice and transformation, waiting periods and change, all were supposed to be meanings for the Hanged Man. She clicked out of the last website, not bothering to check the last few cards. If Angela wanted to believe in this, that was her prerogative, but Brennan wasn't going to waste any more time on it. She picked up her bag and shut everything off, resolutely not thinking of the final words from the reading.

"_Frankly, Temperance, this is a remarkably layout. I rarely see one that has such a, well, romantic, aspect, and I can tell you dislike that. But that is what I see here. There is more than that, of course, I can see pieces of you, your life, your work, just as I should. But almost every card has a meaning that circles back to relationships, especially romantic ones. The Lovers card at the end simply reinforces that." She leaned back, sunlight glinting off the rings she wore. "You have a strong, possibly even an unrealized psychic, connection with someone, probably a coworker. Someone you see on a regular, even daily, basis at any rate. That would account for the opposing impressions of familiarity and newness that I'm picking up. You need to open your eyes to the possibilities."_


	39. Halloween

This is a little piece o' fluff for the ABY Halloween Challenge--all it had to be was one of the characters (_any _character who has ever graced the screen on Bones) as a kid at Halloween. I thought about going obscure, but there is a reason Brennan and Booth are the main characters, after all.

Standard disclaimers--don't own, don't sue, etc, etc…

* * *

"Hey, Bones? I don't remember seeing this picture before," Booth said, holding out an old Polaroid. She set the beers she was carrying down on the coffee table before taking it from him long enough to identify it.

"Oh, that's one of the pictures my dad brought over. He and Mom took a few with them when they left and he thought I'd like to see them, maybe make copies." She looked at it again before handing it back. "This is one of the ones I thought I'd have copied, in fact. Russ might like one, too."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"_Well, Tempe, what do you want to be for Halloween?" Christine Brennan asked, smiling. "A ghost? Witch? Gypsy?"_

_Tempe shook her head. She pivoted slowly, looking at the costumes in the store. There was a skeleton that tempted her briefly, but she shook her head again and kept looking. Her mother waited, patient and amused. Her nine-year-old daughter was always like this, careful and deliberate, most unchildlike. She didn't usually take this long, though. But then, some decisions were simpler than the perfect Halloween costume._

_She had been a mummy last year, and a cowgirl the year before. She wanted something different._

"_What's Russ going as?" she asked, fingering the gauzy skirts of a princess gown. The color was nice…_

"_I think he said something about Batman. He wanted to go as the Devil, but you know how your father and I feel about that."_

_Tempe nodded. They might not be a very religious family, but there were limits. She sometimes thought it was more her mother than her father, but they agreed when in front of her and Russ._

"_That's a superhero, right?"_

"_Yes, dear."_

"_Then I want to be a superhero, too." She went digging through the costumes with a will, now that she had a direction. A few minutes later, she had extracted four outfits. "What do you think, Mom?"_

_Christine studied each one carefully. She only recognized one of them, despite having a teenage son. "I like this one, Tempe," she said finally, tapping it. Tempe studied it, taking in the bold red and blue and gold, and finally nodded too. "Then I'll take that one."_

"_You'll need some sort of body suit to help keep you warm," Christine added. A warm Halloween around Chicago usually meant 60 degrees (F) or so, and this wasn't going to be of the freakishly almost hot ones where the temperature soared above 70. At least this wasn't the original leotard version, plus it had a little cape. But she also knew both kids would be reluctant to cover their costumes with coats--even without capes._

_********************_

"_Now remember, Russ, just because you're wearing a cape doesn't mean you can fly," Matthew was teasing in the living room when Christine and Tempe came out of the bathroom, the latter's admittedly minimal makeup successfully applied._

"_Daaa-aaad!"_

"_Ruu-uussss," Matthew replied, imitating his aggravated tone perfectly._

"_Stop it, both of you," Christine said. "I thought I had only two children, not three." She lightly planted a kiss on her husband's cheek._

"_You know I revert on Halloween and other major holidays, honey," Matthew chuckled, catching her about the waist. "So where's Tempe? Want to see her costume, so I know exactly who I'm escorting this year…wouldn't want me to bring home the wrong girl, after all."_

"_Oh, I don't know," Russ said. "I might like a new sister--one who acts more like a girl would be nice."_

_Both parents opened their mouths, ready to scold, but Tempe ran into the room before they could and punched him in the stomach. Hard._

"_Ow!"_

"_Take it back!" she demanded, one hand on the "lasso" at her hip and the other still in a fist._

"_Easy there, Wonder Woman," Matthew said, catching her by the shoulders. "He didn't mean it--__did __you, Russ?" he added, giving his son a dangerous look, and the boy crumbled._

"_No," he mumbled. "Sorry, Tempe."_

_She stared at him fiercely, still doubting._

"_If that were really Wonder Woman's lasso," Christine interjected, "you could make sure he was telling the truth--at least if I remember right. Matt?"_

"_Absolutely. But she doesn't need to do that, does she?"_

"_No, dad. I really am sorry, Tempe," he said earnestly and a small triumphant smile curled her mouth._

"_Okay." And to show there were no hard feelings (especially since she had won), she gave him a quick hug._

"_Now that we have that settled, I want to take a picture, you two. Come on, pose for me," Matthew said. "And then I can take you guys out."_

_They scrambled out to the porch, playfully pushing each other out of the way._

"_That's not how Wonder Woman stands, Tempe--you gotta be…bolder."_

"_Try this, sweetheart," Christine advised, demonstrating Lynda Carter's classic pose and Tempe happily copied her as Russ stood next to her, hamming it up as Batman for all he was worth._

_They watched the picture come into focus. "Good shot," Matthew said, handing camera and picture to Christine. "Ready to go, guys?"_

'_Yeah!" they chorused._

"_You have your mask on right, don't you, Russ?" Christine asked, double-checking to make sure his eyes were properly visible though the holes._

"_Yes, Mom."_

_She tweaked his cape before turning her attention to Tempe. "You warm enough, sweetheart?""_

"_Yes, Mom," Tempe said, in perfect echo of her brother._

"_Don't eat any of that candy until you bring it back home for your father and I to check over," she continued._

"_Yes, Mom," they said together, grinning, and she laughed. She did say that every year, after all--by now they knew the drill._

"_All right, all right--I give. Go on, then have fun!"_

_Matthew leaned in and gave her a quick kiss before following the kids off the porch. "Be careful?" he murmured._

"_Always. You too," she added. As she stepped back inside, she could hear Tempe demanding to know more about Wonder Woman…_

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Booth studied the picture, but Brennan knew what he was seeing. Tempe and Russ, posing heroically as Wonder Woman and Batman on the front porch, Trick or Treat buckets tucked out of sight. Her mother had written _The Brennan League of Justice_ on the bottom, probably at their father's instigation.

"This explains a lot," he teased. "But you two look…sweet. Which isn't anything I thought I'd ever be saying about your brother." He looked up at her, a crooked smile firmly in place. "Was it a good day?"

Her eyes rested on the picture for a long moment before meeting his again.

"It was…a very good day," Brennan finally said, a soft smile on her face.


	40. The Queen of Tact

_In honesty, I'm not sure where to place this one; we haven't seen too many miscues from her this season… Earlier than later, I guess--or whenever you like. And yes, there is a great deal of me in Odilia, but she's not me._

* * *

It was an ordinary day the FBI came by the shop to tell me that my landlord was dead. I was sorry--he was pretty nice as landlords go, and I certainly knew him, but not so well that I would be drowned in grief.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth, and my partner, Dr Temperance Brennan." I sighed--he was an extremely good-looking man, and I would have enjoyed trying to sell him something. But the FBI doesn't come around announcing themselves like that to stores like this one just to shop. I've watched enough TV to know that. Well, all right, maybe the corrupt ones do.

"Odilia Churchill. What can I do for you, Agent Booth?"

"Do you know a Patrick Byrd?"

"That's the landlord's name; I know _him _if that's who you mean." The woman--Dr Brennan--was staring at me and it made me nervous; as is my habit, I tucked my lower lip under the upper when I finished speaking.

"Yeah. What can you tell us about him? When was the last time you saw him?"

"He collected the rent on the first, like he always does. In person. Stayed and chatted a bit, asked how the shop was doing, gave me a commission for his wife's Christmas present. I was expecting him any day now to discuss it further." I paused for a minute, thinking. "Yes, that's the last time I heard from him."

"Is that normal?"

"Sure. Most months, unless there's a problem, we only see him or expect to see him on the first." I shrugged. "He will come by in between, but we never know when, or which shop he'll swing by. Spot checks, I guess you'd call them. Why?"

Agent Booth was scribbling on a pad as I spoke, but Dr Brennan…she was still staring at me. At my mouth, to be specific. Great. One of _those_. I'm going to develop a complex one of these days, I swear.

"Remains found in Cunningham Falls State Park three days ago have been identified as your former landlord," she said. Oh, now she's finally participating. I shook my head.

"Sorry to hear that--he was a good man."

"Did he ever say anything about trouble, fights, anything like that?"

I shook my head again. "He wouldn't. He was friendly, but…private. His wife might know, I suppose."

He nodded, and she leaned forward. Somehow, I figured it wasn't to look at the goods in the display case. "You have a sizable hematoma on your lip; you should really have that taken care of. I understand there are several methods that preserve the shape and condition of the rest of the lip--laser, schlerotherapy…"

"Bones!"

I gave her a sharp, dirty look--the one I had perfected upon idiot customers, the ones who stopped mid-question, mid-comment, mid-_complaint_ for God's sake to ask about the damned venous lake on my lip--then deliberately ignored her, turning my attention back to the Agent. She seemed oblivious to my irritation, but judging from the expression on his face, he had caught it. Guess that's why he's the agent and she's not.

And then she opened her mouth, plainly intending to carry on. Definitely oblivious. But he nudged her and caught her eye, shaking his head.

"But, Booth--"

"Later, Bones. Anything else you can tell us?" he asked, smoothly shifting his focus back to me.

I finished telling them (him, really) what I could about my fellow tenants' relationship with Patrick, a few more details I dredged up from the last time I saw him, wondering all the while if I should go ahead with that last piece or not. Would his wife still appreciate it?

"Thank you, Ms Churchill," he said, handing me a card. "If you think of anything else, please call."

"Sure." I tucked it into my pocket as they left, the shop's layout allowing me to hear every word.

"Bones, you really need to learn some tact. You know you shouldn't go around commenting on someone's physical appearance like that."

"I was only trying to be helpful," she protested. "She may not know there are treatments available that don't leave scarring--"

"Doesn't matter; that's the sort of thing you need to ease into…"

The door shut behind them, cutting off the rest of their conversation. I wondered who had been stupid enough to pair them, or let her out into the real world, before turning my attention back to putting out the new pieces. After all, no matter what happened to the landlord, I still had to make the rent.


	41. Temptation and Taunts

What if…Booth and Brennan had had a torrid sexual encounter sometime between their first case and the Pilot that went wrong somehow? Dialogue from the Pilot, inspiration from various conversations on the ABY, mostly involving me and Rob and a rotating cast…and no real spoilers.

* * *

Brennan repressed a shiver as Booth loomed over her. The last time they had been so close and this furious--

No. _That _had been an aberration she was determined not to repeat, so she shook off the remembrance of what his mouth, hot and demanding, had felt like on her skin and threw her challenge in his face.

"Cleo Eller was killed on a cement floor sprinkled with diatomaceous earth. Traces of her blood will still be in that cement. One of us is wrong. Maybe both of us. But if Bethlehem wasn't a senator, you'd be right there in his basement looking for that killing floor." She took a breath and then struck. "_You're afraid of him._ Your hypothesis is that squints don't solve murders and cops do. Prove it. Be a cop."

She gave him one last look before turning and sauntering out. Behind her, she could hear two sharp retorts as Booth presumably took out his--frustration--on the target. It was all too plain that he remembered that supercharged night three months ago as clearly as she did.


	42. Faith

_Set after Aliens in a Spaceship, though perhaps with a flavor of Mummy in the Maze and Devil in the Details. Believe it or not, I began this long before Devil aired, and I was delighted at how well I seem to have anticipated._

_And is it time to restate the disclaimer, that I don't own the characters, the script, the show? 'Cause I don't._

* * *

Temperance Brennan had not been born--or even raised--an atheist. In fact, she had had a conventional, if somewhat lackluster, religious education, attending Sunday School with Russ and the occasional service with her parents.

Being who she was, she had learned everything set before her and knew all the usual Bible stories. Joseph and his coat. David and Goliath. Adam and Eve. Noah. The Nativity. The loaves and the fishes. The 100 lepers. She had even read through other parts of the Bible as she got older and discovered more interesting stories. Esther. Deborah. Tamar and Judah. The vivid imagery of Revelations. Even (and this would really shock Booth) Judith, Tobit, and the goriest parts of Maccabees. And she clearly remembered the day she realized what the composer of the Song of Songs had _really _meant. (And how ancient Hebrew erotic poetry had found its way into what so much of the world revered as a holy book remained beyond her comprehension, even years later) And she had had a child's faith--simple, honest, unquestioning.

Of course, under all that normality, there was always a streak of nonconformity. Her father had delighted in showing them that faith could be developed anywhere, that God could be found in a flower as much as inside a building. Russ had liked that only so far as it got him out of going to church; but in the long run, he found he preferred the easy focus of a service. Tempe, on the other hand, had followed her father's lead. Looking through his microscope at the school lab, she could only marvel how everything seemed to fit together. It was like a giant jigsaw created by a master.

But she had been going through a not uncommon period of teenage doubt when her parents disappeared. Her first foster parents had dragged her to their church willy-nilly, not bothering to ask if she wanted to go or even what church she normally attended. And this church had a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher.

His thundering voice, overwhelming presence, and tirades against non-believers and sinners had scared her; in her vulnerable state, she wondered if he wasn't right. Maybe this was a punishment for daring to question the existence of God.

At night, she would lie in the narrow bed allotted her, praying. Praying for her parents or Russ to come back, praying for forgiveness, praying that her foster father wasn't drunk and looking for a fight…

But none of those were actually answered so that she would notice--except for being taken from that house and sent to another. _Those _people were nicer, if preoccupied. Why she had had to leave them had never been fully explained, and she was off again.

The last time she remembered praying had been when she was 16 and locked in that car trunk for breaking a dish. She had screamed, both out loud and in her head, begged anyone in hearing for release, promised to do better, please, please, _please_…! But when release finally came, it was at the same hands that had stuck her in there in the first place. Nor did they get any gentler.

That night, nursing bruises and lacerations incurred in her efforts to free herself, she decided it was all a lie. She had believed, hadn't she? Surely her belief had been greater than a mustard seed…yet no mountains had been moved. Therefore, logically, faith was worthless and there was no point to prayer since there was no God to reach out a saving hand--there was only herself; she was the only one she could rely on.

From then on, she stubbornly refused to attend any sort of services, even when she ended up with more bruises. The closest she got, outside of her anthropology courses, was a non-proselytizing class on Biblical history in college. It had been absolutely fascinating to see how the religious beliefs of a small tribe from the Middle East influenced well over three-quarters of the world.

And nothing had come along to change her mind. She had learned to be silent on that topic and treated all religious activities with respect (mostly for the participants' sake, not for any intrinsic value).

Until Booth. He was so prickly on certain subjects it was fun to wind him up (she thought that was the correct metaphor). Certainly there was an element of retaliation involved--every time he jabbed at her or slipped under her guard, she poked back. Religion was simply one of the easiest ways to do so.

_Jesus is not a zombie, Bones!_

None of which really explained why she was currently sitting next to him, in a church, watching him pray.

_What you have is faith, baby_… She studied Booth's profile as Hodgins' words replayed in her mind.

She didn't have faith--not like Booth did. Even with everything that had happened in his life, the things he had done that she knew he regretted, he still held to the basic beliefs of his childhood. Believed in them and a god sincerely.

Perhaps there was more to faith than the religious aspect, she mused. Could she truly have faith in a person? What had she told Hodgins--_Faith may be no more than an irrational belief in something that's logically impossible_? And she hadn't lied when she had added that she knew what Booth could do. She hadn't added the logical corollary, that she also had an idea of what he was willing to do, or even that she knew he would do it to the best of his abilities. She also trusted the evidence of her senses, the results of her tests--could that be considered faith?

A faith in science?

She played with those thoughts for a while, twisting faith and trust together. It seemed that they could simply be different aspects of the same thing, perhaps members of the same genus. While both were unfamiliar to her, she understood trust--at least a little better than she used to.

Booth finally sat back, crossing himself, and she refocused on him. She knew he was nervous about her being here, but she had already decided she was going to do her best to not upset him.

"What's that smell?" she asked, even though she knew perfectly well what it was. This was his place, even more than the interrogation room, and he needed to display his dominance. She was willing to give him that, considering what they had gone through over the past few days.

"The candles," he answered with a little nod in their direction. "And I said thanks. You should try it sometime."

"If I were going to pray, I would have done it just before we set off the explosion." She couldn't help it; all her good intentions flew out the window at his words.

"And you didn't?"

"No. See, if there was a god--which there isn't--"

"Shhh… Do you _see _where we are?"

"--And if I were someone who believed he had a plan…"

"…which I do…" he interrupted.

"…then I'd be tempted to think he wanted me to go through something like I went through because it might make me more open to the whole…concept."

"Hmmm. It obviously hasn't."

"I'm okay with you thanking god for saving me and Hodgins," she offered, trying to convey that she wasn't criticizing him or his beliefs.

"That's not what I thanked him for. I thanked him for saving all of us. It was all of us, every single one. You take one of us away and you and Hodgins are in that hole forever. And I'm thankful for that."

Oh. Maybe his faith wasn't as simple as she had thought.

It only took her a minute of thought before she voiced what had become the first article of _her_ faith.

"I knew you wouldn't give up."


	43. Grasping the Logic

This is just another little PitH story...inspired by the camera's focus on Booth and his expression after Zack states he's expendable. I completely agree with Booth here, btw.

* * *

Booth kept a firm grip on his emotions as they headed for the hospital--for Bones' sake. He hadn't missed the look in her eyes when she said that Zack (_of all people_) was the killer.

She was devastated--but he was furious and growing more so by the minute. Not that he didn't rage during normal cases, or that the Gormogon ones didn't really push his buttons, but this time-- He felt completely overwhelmed, swamped, drowned. He didn't want to even think about what she must be feeling, considering the shock and betrayal he felt; whatever it was, she had said less than ten words since they walked out of the Jeffersonian.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"The apprentice is expendable. _I'm _expendable."

Angry as he was, something twisted inside him when Zack said that in the same way he would identify a bone. Simple, unarguable fact. No questions, no doubt. _Truth_.

_No one is--or should be--expendable_, he thought as Bones moved closer to the bed. _No one should _ever _think they are_. The anger shifted a little. This guy--"the Master"--he knew mind games, and he was an expert. And Zack, for all his brilliance, was easy prey. Gormogon, whoever he was, whatever his name really was, he was a dead man for screwing with Booth's team.

"I've always been proud of you, Zack," Brennan said as Booth brought his attention back to the scene in front of him. "I've never met anyone more rational or intelligent.

"But there's a flaw in your logic."

Zack tried to protest, but she simply kept talking. Booth kept quiet; he knew his usual methods weren't going to work, and there was a look in Zack's eyes that told him the kid wasn't scared of him anymore--that he was too far gone for such mundane fears. Which was frightening in and of itself. He couldn't think of a time when he couldn't at least intimidate Zack.

"Assumption number one: secret societies exist."

"Accepted. Hodgins has been explaining this to me for years."

"Assumption number two: the human experience is adversely affected by secret societies."

"Accepted."

"Assumption number three: attacking and killing members of secret societies will have an ameliorating effect on the human experience."

"Accepted."

Booth listened, ready to pounce. But then the last statement sunk in. Unnoticed by either anthropologist, Booth's frown changed. Zack _genuinely _believed that what he had done was for the greater good of all.

"All of your assumptions are built upon a first principle, Zack. To wit: the historical human experience, as a whole, is more important than a single person's life."

"Yes."

"Yet, you risked it all so you wouldn't hurt Hodgins."

There was a long pause as Brennan leaned even closer, resting her forehead against Zack's. Booth only hoped she had gotten through to him. But then, if she couldn't, who could?

"There's--" his voice caught. "You are correct. There is an inconsistency in my reasoning."

"Bones, I need a name," Booth said urgently; she had gotten in and now he needed to finish it.

"We know."

As he watched them, he realized all over again that he'd spent too much time with the Squints--the whole damn mess actually made sense in some crooked way, not that he would ever admit it out loud. The poor kid so badly wanted to be like Bones, wanted to make a positive difference in the world. It was like he told Bones back when Zack first returned from Iraq: Zack was a man and wanted to do a man's work. Unfortunately for him, for all of them, his ideas of what a man's work should be had gotten…warped.

The realization made him a little gentler than he might have otherwise been. "Zack, I need to know who this guy is. I need to go get him. Now."

Zack swallowed hard and began to talk. "I don't know his name. I've never known his name, but I've been to his house…"

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Brennan didn't even ask to go with him; she stayed in the room, next to Zack, dry-eyed, waiting for the lawyers, her hand firmly locked to his. Booth didn't like it, but he understood. And he found, despite all the times he had wished she would keep out of the way, when she didn't fight him, it was just…wrong. Just like the entire situation. He grit his teeth and got out of the SUV at the house on Savoy Crescent, weapon heavy in his hand.


	44. Lancelot

Lancelot

_I'm back, children! Or at least I think I am. (did anyone miss me? Maybe you shouldn't answer that!) This week's ep seemed to have inspired me after the long dry spell that was seasons 5, 6, and 7 (well, 7 was excellent, but the fanfic muse buried herself so far away that I thought she was gone altogether)._

_This little piece came about from a discussion with my husband after we watched it and a lot of conferring with my old partner in crime, Robert Modean._

_Anyway, let me state for the record that I do not own these characters or the show—never have, never will._

* * *

"So, Sweets, where's Agent Sparling?" Angela asked after her third Cosmopolitan. The team had decided to postpone their usual celebration drink in the case of the mixed-up twins until the weekend in deference both to the new parents' schedules and Sweets being wounded. "She should have come. Did you ask her?"

Sweets' neck turned dull red and he hastily gulped at his own drink (club soda with a twist, doctor's orders), wishing it was something stronger, but he muttered something non-committal. The artist laughed knowingly, rolling her eyes at Brennan who arched an eyebrow at her best friend questioningly.

"When'd you say Daisy was due back?" Booth asked, taking pity on him. "And did you ever find her a gift?"

"Tomorrow, Booth," Brennan said before Sweets could answer. "And why would I get her a gift?"

"No, Bones—_Sweets_. He was going to buy Daisy a gift."

"Booth's right, Dr Brennan, I was going to buy her something—to surprise her when she got back," Sweets explained. "But yeah, she's due back tomorrow. When she heard about my getting shot, she was all for flying right back. But I convinced her to not cut her visit with her parents short."

Angela snortled into her drink.

"Especially with the concerns about flying these days," Brennan said understandingly. "The TSA is quite suspicious of people who change their flight plans on short notice or buy a ticket right before the flight."

"So what'd you get her, Sweets?" Angela asked, eyes gleaming.

"Oh—ah—just a little fantasy figurine. Knight and dragon, you know the sort of thing. She collects them."

"Don't ever move in with her, Sweets," Booth said. "God only knows what would happen if her fantasy statues started mating with your action figures!"

Sweets' flush deepened. "Many people have some sort of collection, you know. Ceramic shoes or stamps or, or…dolphin figurines!"

"Or glass dragons. It seems Daisy is quite the fan of that sort of thing," Cam observed. "Remember her reaction over that Prince Charmington doll last year?"

Brennan, Hodgins, and Angela rolled their eyes. "You are correct, Dr Sweets. It is not uncommon for people of a certain maturity level to collect such things. Why, even I had a collection of turtle figurines when I was a child," Brennan noted.

Hodgins suddenly started to laugh. "Daisy _does_ have a thing for that. What is it she call you, Sweets?"

"Lance-alot," Angela singsonged and Hodgins muffled a guffaw. "Daisy's own perfect knight!"

Sweets squirmed on his chair and even Cam was fighting back laughter.

"Actually," Booth said quietly, "Sweets is no Lancelot."

The laughter died off slowly as they all turned to look at him. Booth leaned back in the chair, relaxed, idly turning his empty shot glass back and forth.

"You don't have to insult the boy, Seeley," Cam said sharply.

"Actually, I'm not, Camille. It's Daisy who's been damning him with faint praise. I thought even squinty types had to take English lit in school, but guess I'm wrong." He shrugged and signaled the server for another round.

"You can't leave us hanging like that, Booth," Angela protested.

"While I have always thought the nickname was somewhat overdone, my recollection from school of Lancelot du Lac was positive," Brennan added thoughtfully. "That he was 'the mightiest knight upon life,' I believe the term was, and that his fellow knights held him in high esteem."

"True," Booth admitted. "He was a mighty warrior, unsurpassed in skill at arms, even catching a glimpse of the Grail, too. But he was ultimately part of the reason Camelot fell. Galahad was the perfect knight—and you're not exactly Galahad either, kid," he added. "After all, you're getting some."

At that, the flush ran all the way up Sweet's face. "Thanks, Booth—I think."

Hodgins chuckled. Booth grinned as he continued, "Lancelot and Guinevere contributed to the fall of Camelot by having an affair. That was one of the reasons he couldn't do more than catch a peek at the Grail. You're not like that, Sweets. You have too much honor, too much integrity, to do that to anyone. I may not agree with your thinking all the time, but you do try to stay on the right path." He clinked his newly refilled glass against Sweets'. "One of the reasons I can let you have my back."

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv vvvvvvvvvvvvvv

"I was thinking, Booth," Brennan said solemnly as they walked back towards the SUV.

"Alert the media—Dr Temperance Brennan has been thinking," Booth joked, but at her look of scorn, quickly regained his composure. "Okay, Bones, what were you thinking about?"

"About the conversation about the Knights of the Round Table earlier this evening. While I am not sure which knight would truly be a representative of Sweets, I believe I have determined who yours would be, Booth."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really? Should I be worried?"

"I don't think so. After much deliberation, I have decided Gawain would be the only truly appropriate choice. He is strong and courteous, and takes his promises seriously. He has great loyalty to his family and his friends and is even willing to sacrifice himself for them." Booth blushed, visible even in the streetlights' glare. "And most importantly to me, of course—are you familiar with the tale of the Loathly Lady?"

"Sure. Gawain gets promised to a hideous woman who has the answer he—or Arthur, depending on the version—needs to the question: 'what do women really want?' All is saved by her help and they have a wedding. In private she tells him that she can beautiful half the time and hideous the rest. Would he prefer her to beautiful when it was just them or out in the eyes of the world? He can't decide and defers to her, which breaks the spell she's under and she's beautiful, faithful, and true all of the time."

"Because what women desire is sovereignty," she finished, smiling.

"But…you _are_ beautiful, Bones—I've always thought so—and you're wildly independent; so how does this apply to you?"

"Because, like Gawain, you let yourself see there was more to me than my façade and then you let me be who I am," she said simply.

"Why, thank you, Bones. I'm flattered." He slung an arm over her shoulder as they walked. "So if I'm Gawain, then you must be…hmmm, not Guinevere, of course; not Isolde; definitely _not_ Elaine. Ha—you're the Lady of the Lake!"

"But, Booth—"

"No, hear me out. She is a lady of grace, with esoteric knowledge available to her, she aids Arthur's knights in their noble quests, not to mention keeps them on track, and lastly, she gave Arthur his greatest weapon, Excalibur. You do that, Bones—you keep the investigation on track, you have the knowledge, and you give us the weapons that help us arrest the right person."

This time, she laughed softly. "I've never thought much of the Lady of the Lake." She squeezed his hand lightly. "Personally, I rather identified with Morgan la Fey!"

Booth looked askance at Brennan while her lips twisted into a mischievous smile. With a shake of his head and a throaty laugh he pulled her tighter against his side. "Only you, Bones, only you."

* * *

snortle—to laugh, choke, or chortle while taking a drink (yes, it's my word. Please send me a nickel every time you use it, thank you! ;) )


	45. What Dreams May Come

Well, the muse continues to cooperate, thankfully. Pulled this one out of my files, dusted it off, added the missing scene, and hey-presto, a new chapter! My darling husband helped my with this one, including finding me a video of Hero in the Hold so I could check on something.

Set just before Harbingers, with references to End in the Beginning, Hero in the Hold, and Aliens in a Spaceship.

* * *

_He slides under the covers, gently curling about his sleeping and utterly beloved wife. His hand brushes over the satin of her belly, just starting to round, and he can't suppress a grin. She sighs and nestles closer, still asleep, and his grip tightens slightly. He finally falls asleep himself, with the subtle and exotic scent of her in his nose…_

Booth groaned as he woke. Another dream… Not that it had been unpleasant, this echo of his coma. And it certainly could have been worse, he decided, rolling onto his back and looking at the ceiling. Last night had been a nightmare about Bones (_Bones_, not Bren, but _Bones_) getting shot by that _Mara Muerte_ bastard, and the night before…well, it still made him blush, it was _that _wild.

He'd never had that many memorable dreams before, and all but two of the ones he had had since Bones took off (it may have been at the government's rather insistent request, but she seemed all too willing to go, in his opinion), had been of her. None of his old military nightmares, none featuring Parker. Just Temperance Brennan—sometimes as Bones, sometimes as Bren.

He'd swear she left because of him. She hid it well, but he knew his confusion had taken a toll on her. Even heard her confirm it to Angela when both women thought he was napping

"_Ange, I don't know what to do! He thought we were married at first, and I thought I had managed to convince him otherwise. But then he comes out with something that's Bren, not Bones."_

"_At least he doesn't think you two still run a club anymore."_

"_Small consolation," she muttered. "He hovers, watches every bite I eat, opens his mouth to criticize the wine I have at dinner…"_

"_Well, the eating part is nothing new," Angela said, plainly trying to lighten the atmosphere._

"_I had a hell of a time all over again when we got back here, explaining why none of my things were in his bathroom or even why I wasn't sleeping with him. He knows who we are in his head, I suppose you might say, but he has to think about it." She sighed and the sound punched him in the gut._

But she's coming home, he knows it, trusts her, thinks he might have all his crap together now. The picture of them running a club is still a little too clear for his own comfort, but he's well aware that it's all fantasy. That in real life, he works for the FBI, is already a father, never married, and _Bones _is his partner and best friend.

_He stands on the ridge, the sun harsh on his head and shoulders, the taste of dust heavy in his mouth. Below him is an unbroken field, and he scans it, desperate for any sign… There! a small puff of smoke or dust, and he's running as though the world depended on it._

_He digs through the loose dirt, but this time there is no hand reaching upwards for him to pull into the light, and he's forced to step back and let the machines finish the job. They uncover the car and he can hear Angela's moan at the sight. The windshield is gone; Bones and Hodgins lay unmoving in the backseat, half covered by the rubble that had poured in when the glass shattered…_

"No!" he shouted into the quiet room, waking himself. "Oh, God," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. He wasn't sure how much more of this he could take; each dream was sharp and vivid-too vivid, he thought resentfully. And one every damn night was overkill, in his opinion.

_Water surges in, slamming him off his feet and sending him tumbling. By the time he rights himself, the water's up to his chest and rising faster. Teddy's gone and he feels an unexpected pang at that. But he thinks he sees an escape route in the hatch above him and he swims through the freezing water toward the ladder leading up to the catwalk._

_By the time he gets there, the water level is more than high enough for him to reach it. But the cold numbs him, making it hard to haul himself up on the catwalk, but he does, grateful not only for the stability under his feet, but also for the chance to get out of the water for a little while._

_The hatch is locked or rusted shut and though he tries until it feels like he'll explode, it refuses to open. And meanwhile, the water is creeping up his legs, past his belt…_

He was almost happy about this one. It was expected, Gravedigger following Gravedigger, and it didn't feature Bones, which was something of a relief. It was also slightly less traumatic than some of his old Ranger nightmares. Even if it made him less than enthusiastic to shower…

_He can't see, but there's no panic. Ah, a blindfold, he realizes just before a pair of soft lips graze his ear, brush along his jaw, place gentle kisses over his throat, before rising to attack his mouth. His hands close over a slender waist, holding her in place…_

He rode that one out to its natural conclusion, waking at the climax, her name on his lips. "Bones!" _Oh, God, when is she coming home?_


End file.
